Saving the Fox X: por la pluma y la espada
by Therrae
Summary: The power of the word and the perils of communication.
1. Feb 8, 1815

_For the sake of proper form I'll just repeat what everyone already knows: I own neither the characters nor the situations (and not even the plots). Although the legal statement is perfunctory, my personal gratitude and affection for the people who did create these things is profound and genuine. _

**Saving the Fox 10: **por la pluma y la espada

**Feburary 8, 1815**

The sun had set already, and Diego was still sleeping. Felipe didn't want to wake him, but if Diego missed dinner, he would be annoyed. And, anyway, he did need to eat.

On the other hand, it had been an impossibly long day. The print run had proceeded with no problems, but before Felipe and Nicholas had even finished selling the copies the pueblo had erupted into chaos. Someone had robbed the bank. In full daylight. On market day.

The alcalde had railed. The townspeople had nearly rioted. The lancers had started blaming each other. It had taken forever for the search party to head out.

Diego had been beside himself: the robbery would be old news by the time the next issue was published. It was the most interesting news in weeks, and everybody would hear about it by gossip. Still, he had dutifully collected witness accounts and waited to see if the search party had any success.

Zorro had brought the bandit in just after siesta. The few remaining lancers had panicked a bit when Zorro trotted into town leading the horse and rider that everyone was looking for. One of them had ordered Zorro to surrender, but he hadn't been very optimistic about it, and was too busy taking charge of the prisoner to bother with the usual fruitless pursuit of Zorro.

Diego had tried to get in to interview the prisoner, a stranger named Enrique Vargas, but after half an hour of polite refusals, he had finally given up and gone home.

He had found Gilberto casually reading in the library and gotten the story out of him. Most of it had been in (awkward and overly blunt) sign so that they would not be overheard. Diego frowned through the account and then took Gilberto out into the privacy of the side garden and demanded it again, out loud. He was asking for a third time when Gilberto pointed out that Diego was so exhausted that he was swaying and he needed to go lie down.

Diego had resisted with unusual stubbornness until, fed up, Gilberto had signed "Fix this!" at Felipe, and Felipe obligingly made a meek and polite request that Diego get some rest. Diego – with exaggerated resignation – went to his room to lie down.

With Diego resting, Felipe sat by the window trying to read English. The sun was setting, though, and the room was getting dark. He wouldn't light a lamp, he decided. Diego had actually fallen asleep with his shoes on. He needed the rest….

The quiet room was only disturbed by an owl calling outside the window. Felipe closed his eyes and let his head rest against the back of the chair.

Last Saturday – finally, after receiving weeks of piercing looks – he had made his confession. It had taken all his nerve to put the worst of it into words, and then he had to repeat it four times before Father Benitez had understood, since his signing was even worse than Gilberto's. Shocked, the old man had caught Felipe's hands and stilled them halfway through the last explanation.

"No," he said. "No. You are not confessing that you are glad your mother is dead. That is absurd."

Felipe could find no response. There really was no defense for the evil thoughts that had been swirling in his mind.

Father Benitez sighed and released Felipe's hands. "Child, you are obviously not rejoicing that your mother is dead. You are rejoicing that your mother was not the thief who abducted you. It is hardly the same."

Felipe sagged unhappily. "Even before I knew I didn't want to go…. " He shook his head.

"Even when you believed she was your mother you were not, perhaps, delighted to be going away with her?"

Felipe nodded. "The Fifth Commandment."

"Ah." He thought for a moment. "I see. A serious problem. And yet, it seems to me that it isn't only blood that makes a family. Surely, Don Diego is also your family. Surely…it is only natural that you would not be eager to leave the only home and family you remember, especially in the company of a stranger that your heart didn't recognize. No, I can't absolve you of any of this. It wasn't a sin."

Oh. Felipe hadn't been ready for that.

Father Benitez wasn't looking at him. He sighed heavily and said, "I suppose you know; in two months or less, Los Angeles will play host to twenty orphans." He crossed himself absently. "Felipe, I am not praying three times a day that the original parents of these orphans will appear out of thin air and rescue us from this responsibility. My hopes for each of them…are exactly what you have: That they will be loved, taught right from wrong, given a useful education, and raised to be people of reason…." He sighed again. "Do not discount your blessings by esteeming the second family the Lord gave you less than the first."

Felipe shook his head vigorously. "Diego saved me! Always, Diego saved me. He might have been killed this time - "

"Too quickly, Felipe, I'm sorry."

Felipe took a deep breath and shaped the next words carefully, "You know what he did, coming after me."

"Yes, and I agree that, ah, _what he did_ was…a reasonable risk in the circumstances, taken for the right reasons. And before you argue, perhaps I could remind you that you came to me intending to confess a lack of filial piety? Even if it had been the wrong decision, it was Diego's to make. You are in his care."

When they had finally finished, absolution had come along with penance for pride, which was not at all what he had expected. It had given him a great deal to think about.

Surely, he wasn't really a child. Between Zorro's secret and Diego's poor health he had too many responsibilities for that. And yet.

He kept thinking of Diego helping him off Viking by the little stream, and sitting with him, and explaining that that madwoman was_ not_ his mother, and he was_ not_ to be taken away….

Diego had saved him again. Impossibly. With no regard to the risk to himself. In fact, he had even managed it _with_ no harm to himself that a long nap hadn't fixed. Diego had saved him from that woman just as he had saved him from the war and from isolation and from ignorance. And since everyone had told him he had no business feeling guilty about that, perhaps he…could feel simply grateful.

Or perhaps grateful wasn't quite the word.

There were twenty orphans coming to Los Angelos. Kids probably a lot younger than Filipe, and nobody wanted them or was saving them. Only the Church was trying to take care of them, and it were doing such a lax job of it that it was sending them to the end of the world….

Diego, by contrast, had made a point several times of saying that he very much wanted Filipe. Yes, losing his natural parents as he had was a tragedy, and yes the Costas' plan for him had been evil, but Diego loved him and was grateful for his existence.

Surely, Felipe wasn't so old or responsible that he could – or should – ignore that. He had a family. And he hadn't really needed either the example of the orphanage or the madwoman who would abduct a child and use him to rob a bank to remind him of that.

The dark shape on the bed shifted a bit. Felipe sighed. Diego had been so happy these last few weeks. Well…mostly happy. Something was bothering him, a little, but he clearly wasn't letting himself brood about it. He was busy and cheerful, always. He got up early. He ate without complaint. He had started Felipe's music lessons again. Every morning he was not working on the newspaper he rode out to check on the aqueduct. Diego was ….satisfied. Felipe should probably follow his example.

What he couldn't do was sit here thinking anymore. It was surely almost time for dinner. He fetched a lamp and woke Diego.

They entered the front room just as Don Alejandro came through the door, talking over his shoulder to Don Carlos who was just behind them. They must have just come from town, because they were still complaining about the bank robbery.

"Have they found the money, yet?" Gilberto asked, setting down his book and adjusting his cravat.

Don Carlos winced theatrically. "Noooo. Not yet."

Diego frowned. "I would have thought the alcalde would have had it out of Vargas already." He didn't actually sound happy about that. "He's back in town by now, surely."

Don Alejandro stilled. "It's odd. Now that you mention it….The alcalde went straight to the bank. He hadn't come out when we left. Normally, I disapprove of his methods, of course….well, of course." He sighed. "If he's waiting for nightfall, that doesn't bode well for the prisoner."

Gilberto went to pour his father and the guest some wine. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Father Benitez is in town. Ramone will stop when he gets his confession."

"Father, what's wrong?" Diego asked.

"I'm almost starting to feel sorry for the poor devil. According to the sergeant, he's very insistently proclaiming his innocence."

Don Carlos laughed shortly. "_I_ can feel sorry for him: I had no money in the bank. You, my friend, may have a fortune depending on the location of that money."

Don Alejandro only grunted.

"May? They aren't sure how much was taken?" Diego asked. "I heard it was twelve thousand pesos."

Don Alejandro only stared at the low fire burning in the library hearth. Don Carlos said, "Don Roberto called for a full accounting. He was remarkably level-headed, given how much of his money might be missing."

Gilberto handed him a glass of wine. "Why is everyone so glum? The bandit has been _caught_. The money can't be too far away."

"It's an ugly business," Don Carlos said, shrugging.

Maria called them in to dinner, but Diego was unwilling to let the issue drop. As he sat down he said, "As useful as it is to do an accounting, if they find the money, they will _know_ how much was taken and the point will be moot anyway. Why didn't the alcalde begin the questioning at once?"

Gilberto gave him a dark look. "Since when are you in a hurry for _that_ kind of questioning?"

"I'm not in a hurry. I'm just pointing out that it is curious."

Don Alejandro sighed. "The alcalde seldom makes sense. Who can say what he is thinking?"

"Zorro caught him very quickly," Diego continued absently. "I'm amazed he had time to hide the money."

Gilberto frowned. "Zorro brought in the thief. That's quite a feat, even without the bag of gold."

Diego blinked. "I'm not disparaging Zorro. I am only saying the entire business seems a bit…odd."

"Odd? It was a bandit, Diego. They are hardly a novelty."

"But they _are_," Diego contradicted. "Zorro does a very good job. We hardly had a bandit set foot within near town in almost a year, let alone march right into the bank and ride away with a fortune."

"I do not see you point," Gilberto said stiffly.

"And I don't see why you are arguing," Don Alejandro cut in. "This is a problem for the law now."

"The magistrate is expected in a few days," Don Carlos said. "It should be sorted out fairly quickly."

"The magistrate?" Diego frowned. "How convenient."

**Diego**

It was a very pleasant morning, and the door to the alcalde's office was open. Diego waved at the guard on duty at the gate, knocked on the doorframe, and strode into the office cheerfully.

Ramone barely glanced up from the papers scattered across his desk and said, "No, de le Vega, you may not interview the prisoner."

Diego, scrupulously polite, said, "I was hoping to speak to _you_, Senor."

The alcalde put down his quill and regarded Diego with a mix of dislike and puzzlement. "I wasn't aware we had anything to discuss."

"I was wondering how the Crown was planning to proceed with the case against our bandit. For the newspaper, of course. Will he be sent north to the capital for trial?"

The puzzlement turned to boredom and the dislike became barely leashed contempt. Despite all that his smile was cordial. "I am loathe to let him out of the territory before he reveals the location of our money, and since the magistrate is expected in a few days anyway, it seems ridiculous to deplete our garrison for an escort to the capital."

"The magistrate is on time, then?"

"For once. Was there anything else?"

"No. Well – I did mean to ask – for the newspaper, you know – who will be representing him?"

The question caught Ramone off guard, and for a moment his eyes widened in what Diego was sure was genuine surprise. "Representing him? At the trial?" He collected himself. "I have no idea. He hasn't asked for anyone, but then he doesn't know anyone here in town….I suppose someone will have to be found…."

"If no one else steps forward, I'd like to volunteer."

It was all he could do not to grin at the look of astonishment this elicited. "You would like to _volunteer_?"

"Someone must do it…." Diego smiled. "I am one of the few people it wouldn't inconvenience. And I'd have to be at the trial anyway…."

"Volunteer. You do realize…we have a witness! The suspect was captured fleeing the scene! There is no chance you will win the case."

"Should a man only do his civic duty when he is likely to win?"

"You must be the…most civic-minded young man in the territory." Diego was quite sure that it was only his station that kept the end of that sentence from containing the word 'idiot.' "Still.…" Ramone eyed him narrowly. "It occurs to me there might be some conflict of interest - ? After all, everyone knows your priority is the newspaper. A robbery of this size is a noteworthy event…."

Diego couldn't afford to let that gleam of suspicion develop. He folded his arms defensively and leaned backward slightly. "Irregularities in civil procedures would be newsworthy as well."

For a long moment Ramone mulled over the words before frowning indignantly. "I assure you there are no 'irregularities.' The prisoner has been treated very properly."

"So you say," Diego answered. For just a moment he dropped his polite mask and let himself hate the cruel man in his expensive clothing and perfectly combed hair. He knew what Ramone was capable of. To call Ramone's indulgence of his sadistic tendencies "irregularities in civil procedures" was an unfunny joke, and both of them understood the punch line.

The alcalde tilted his head and leaned back in his chair, very nearly smiling. It clearly pleased him to think that Diego was still angry, that his own remembered helplessness had prompted him to take interest in the current case. That pleasure would keep him from looking for other explanations or worrying about the safety of his secrets. Assuming he _did_ have a secret associated with this arrest. Diego was not sure.

He had to find out, though his pride stung at using _this_ to do it. It had been well over a year since Diego had been singled out for the alcalde's dubious hospitality. As unpleasant as it had been at the time, he'd taken some comfort in not showing that it affected him. He had been neither frightened nor humbled, and that little success had warmed him considerably. Now, to acknowledge that weakness, to actually play it up – Diego found his eyes sliding away. It would help the effect of the performance, of course, but it was a genuine reaction and Diego hated it. "I will have to speak to the accused," he said.

The alcalde sighed. "So you will." He waved a hand. "Ah, well. Go on. Ha. I can't imagine he's too busy to talk to you."

So Diego went through the interior door and into the familiar little jail. Only one of the cells was occupied. The prisoner was a small, weary-looking man with limp hair and worried eyes. Diego went to the bars and introduced himself.

It took a little coaxing to get Enrique Vargas talking, but the story, when it came out, was hardly a surprise. He had just been innocently passing through town. He had stopped at the bank to change some money. He had walked out without incident, headed for home. He had not known there was any problem until he had spotted the masked man riding down on him.

"It's unusual to go rushing out of town on market day," Diego pointed out.

"I'm already several days late. The man I was meeting was delayed," he scowled. "My brother will be frantic by now…."

"Hmmm." Diego could sympathize with that, at least, but he wasn't sure what to make of his story. Guilty or innocent, Diego would have expected something like this denial. Well, perhaps something a little more creative, but still. Diego collected the information, arranged to rent a set of linens from the tavern (since the jail still didn't provide 'personal' necessities), and returned to the newspaper office to check on Nicholas and Felipe who were clearing the plates.

They were nearly halfway through. Diego dispatched Felipe off to get snacks at the tavern and took over his page. "If I'm going to have any work to do, we're going to need a longer paper," he complained.

Nicholas laughed. "We barely have enough news to fill this one, Boss. The science column has been pretty long the last two weeks."

"We could include a regular section on news from the mission," Diego said, a little desperately. "Does much interesting happen there?"

"Everybody who lives there already knows everything that goes on. They talk about everything endlessly. Every two or three months the friars start lecturing us on gossip again." He shrugged. "I don't know. It's pretty boring, talking about the same problems over and over. But sometimes people behave themselves if they know everybody is going to talk about them if they act badly."

"How useful," Diego murmured, noticing that he had just placed a_**B**_ in the _**b**_ bin.

"In its way. I don't know why the friars are so against it. Unless they think we can't work and talk at the same time…."

"It is speculation, rather, that they object to," Diego said. "It can ruin a person's reputation."

"Speculation? You mean gossip about things that didn't actually _happen_? What would be the point of that?"

Sighing, Diego finally fished out his capital B. "Malice, I suppose. Or one-upmanship."

"But how would it work if nobody actually believed it?"

Diego wondered if Nicholas was only very young or if the Indian communities actually kept their gossip as accurate and honest as he tried to keep his newspaper.

Felipe came in, then, with fresh milk and some little cakes. He scowled at the little progress Diego had been able to make and shooed him away from the plate. He passed Diego a folded bit of paper, asked about the case, and flew back to work plucking the tiny metal letters out and flicking them neatly into the bins. Even on his best day, Diego was not as fast as the boys, and today was hardly his best day.

"He claims he is innocent, but offers no evidence for it. He admits to being in the bank…." Diego supposed he would have to speak to the prosecutor, but that meant asking the alcalde if he had appointed one yet. He disliked speaking to the alcalde again so soon. Perhaps he could put that off until tomorrow….

He opened the note Felipe had given him and scowled. Father Benitez wanted him to stop by if it was convenient. That was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

**Gilberto **

"And you'll pay me to do this," the old Perot said doubtfully, squinting up at him.

"Yes."

"This is some ploy of your father's, because I won't take his charity."

Gilberto smothered a sigh and shook his head. "I need the information."

"It's crazy!" A scowl. "Are you off your head? Don Gilberto." That last had probably been added not because the ornery old man had any respect for Gilberto's station (he didn't, particularly. He was proud and stubborn and strange, and if Gilberto had taken offense and struck him for disrespect it would scarcely make him blink) but because Perot had some idea of being polite to crazy people.

For his part, Gilberto scarcely needed to defend himself to this irritating old coot – except he could read some and knew his numbers and Gilberto _needed_ this information to be accurate, especially here above the valley. "It's the weather, you see," he explained. "So much depends on the wind and the rain, and we could do so much better if we could predict it, if we had some better idea of what was coming."

With a great show of patience (he was not known for it) Perot pointed at Gilberto's little assembly of rods and flags. "You don't predict weather with _that_."

"Not one. And not by itself. But if you count how many times it takes to go around in a minute, it will tell me how fast the wind is. There are others, and perhaps by comparing - "

"You predict the weather by watching clouds."

"And what moves the clouds but the wind?" Gilberto snapped, finally losing his temper. "I don't know that this will work. I don't know that _any_ of it will work. But the only way to find out is to try everything until something does work. The weather is important! By God, it's all of our _lives_, isn't it? So I'm going to try and I'm willing to pay you to help me, if you'll do a good job of it and use the tools correctly - " He stopped, realizing that he was shouting at a man who was poor and old and if either his father or brother could see him there would be a lecture…

But Perot only grunted, a sound that seemed to be more thoughtfulness than disinterest. He held his hand out for the record sheet Diego had printed up. Gilberto handed it over. "We'll give it a try then, young man. It'll prob'ly amount to nothing and I won't get my hopes up for any miracles. But I guess if something can be done about the weather, it _would_ be something all patient and fiddly and silly." The look he gave Gilberto implied that patient, fiddly, and silly were all attributes he had plenty of. Gilberto thought he should feel offended, but it was all he could do not to laugh.

**Victoria**

There was a note on a scrap of paper in the strongbox. Studying it, Victoria frowned. "Why has Don Diego rented a set of linens? Has someone been arrested? Pilar?" Surely, if the alcalde were causing trouble she would have heard something. "Pilar?"

Pilar looked up, blinking. She had been distracted and absent minded since her grandfather died. "Oh. Don Diego. He's serving as counsel for that man Vargas. He arranged for a pillow and blanket…."

"Counsel?"

"Yes. For the trial."

"Why would he do that?" Victoria asked, fingering the scrap of paper. But really, it wasn't so much a question of _what_ reason as _which_ reason. There were so many. It might simply be that any opportunity to oppose the alcalde was attractive on general principals. Or it might be that he was specifically worried about Vargas' safety in the hands of the alcalde. Luis Ramone could be very…enthusiastic in his treatment of prisoners and the seriousness of the crime might give him an excuse to indulge himself. Diego would object to that. He didn't believe that torture was justice, even if the victim had broken the law….

Or perhaps it was the law itself he was making a statement about? That the forms of the trial and the proper procedures were necessary even when people were angry or indignant? That would be very like Diego, too. He believed in rule of law and honoring the rights of everyone, even criminals and women and the poor and Indians.

He wouldn't win the case, of course. Vargas was guilty and everyone knew it. But that little detail wouldn't stop Diego from making the effort. He would try, and do an excellent job of it. He was brave that way, when it came to fighting for what he believed, and he believed in the future of California. He believed in law and justice. He believed in his fellow man….

He didn't believe in his own future. He would fight for Vargas and see that he got the full protection of the law, but he wouldn't fight for himself or for Victoria. Oh, if she got _arrested_ (whenever she got arrested) he was the first one to speak up for her rights. But a life with her - ?

She supposed it was admirable, that he would go to such trouble for everyone else and seek nothing for himself. And he was trying to protect her, she understood that. It was selfless and admirable and she should admire it, but mostly she felt sad and angry.

She had thrown herself at him. It would be horribly embarrassing if anybody else knew about it. It was horribly embarrassing and _nobody_ knew about it. A lady didn't do that, propose to a man. A lady? Even a farm girl just smiled a little for encouragement, maybe batted her eyes, and hoped the right man would notice. Women were pursued, they didn't pursue.

But Diego had no faith in her, in _them_. Perhaps he thought she wasn't strong enough to face the hard parts of life, or that she was interested in romance and an ideal marriage, rather than….

Rather than….

She set the note back into the strongbox and retreated into the kitchen.

She knew exactly why Diego wouldn't marry her. In the weeks since he had so politely refused her, she'd tried – once – since to talk to him about it. He had been very blunt. "I would give anything to have you for my wife, but not for anything will I see you become my nurse or my widow. Forget about this, please, Victoria. Let it go."

_Let it go. _

Let it go and…._what_? Marry someone else? Well. If Diego didn't want her there were plenty who would. It would serve him right! But the thought of marrying someone else for spite brought such a terrible feeling of grief. She would be betraying herself every bit as much of Diego to accept the attentions of someone else.

So… stay unmarried, then? How was being an old maid any better than being a widow? That was absurd. Did Diego think she wouldn't grieve, just because they weren't married when he died? _Eventually_, which might well be years from now? And did he think there was nothing in his life beyond his illness? There was more right now, certainly, if he was donating time as a legal advocate!

For a moment she stood in the kitchen, hands on her hips, unable to think for the resentment and rage. Diego would tilt at windmills for this stranger knowing the enterprise _must_ fail, but for _her_ he wouldn't try, even a little. He had no faith in either of them, put forth no effort, but on behalf of this _criminal_ –

She felt herself blushing at that. How could she possibly resent Enrique Vargus? He was such a poor, desperate little man! One more impoverished farmer reduced to theft…and he was so bad at it and didn't even have a gang….and he'd been caught and would surely be executed or worse, sent to the prison.

She felt her eyes fill with tears and she brushed them away impatiently. Crying? That was intolerable. Where was her pride? Or at least her sanity or a little perspective? She took a deep breath and went to look at the rising bread. Work. She should get back to work.

**Alejandro**

He spread the orange leaf between his fingers, scratching at a brown spot on the underside. "How much?" he asked levelly.

His hands shifting on the bridle of his horse, Carlos cleared his throat and said, "Five hundred pesos."

"Five hundred pesos? It's scarcely noon! How could you possibly lose that much in – what? An hour?"

Carlos stiffened, but didn't answer. Alejandro crushed the orange leaf in his hand and clinched his teeth together. He wasn't going to lecture Carlos. It had never done any good, and casting himself as a nag and his best friend as an errant schoolboy was demeaning to them both. Tossing the leaf aside, he said, "May I ask to whom - ?"

"Emilio Pascal."

"Ah." Well, what _could_ he say? The Pascal brat. It was humiliating that Carlos had lost to him, but the situation wouldn't be much improved if Carlos had been tossing away money at cards with Don Roberto or Pablo Juarez.

"You know I'll pay you - "

"I don't object to loaning you money! My God, do you think that's the problem? I object to the rank stupidity of – Why can't you stop yourself from – Have you really so depleted - " he snapped his teeth shut and turned away. "We are not having the conversation. I'll have the money ready for you by tomorrow."

"I know with the bank robbery…I realize it might be tight…."

"Don't worry about it." As though Alejandro wasn't worried. Losing that much money in a couple of hours was quite bad enough, but not to have the cash on hand to pay the debt – How much had Carlos been losing? The last few years Alejandro had been actively trying _not_ to pay attention. Trying to interfere had never done any good. Right after he lost, Carlos was always contrite and reasonable, but after a few months his commitment to good sense would fade and he would start gaming at something: cards, racing, bull-bear fights, it hardly mattered. It was always very polite and gentlemanly. He would win a little and lose a little….and then the losses would start to pile up and he would make some big gambit to recoup the money. It always ended in an embarrassing mess and Carlos down more than he could afford to lose and promising never to gamble again. Well. Alejandro was thoroughly sick of the look on Carlos' face when he lost. It could be every bit as bad, in its way, as strong drink or loose women or dueling for sport. Alejandro rarely gambled himself anymore.

"Alejandro, I hate the idea of having a debt between us."

"Better you owe it to me than that scoundrel Pascal."

**Diego**

He put off visiting the rectory as long as he could. When the plates were cleared and cleaned, Nicholas sent home, and the science column written for the next two weeks, Diego ran out of reasons to keep working.

He found Padre Benitez in the back garden. As usual, it was loud with the chattering of birds. Diego was accustomed to the finches at the feeder, the doves who lived under the eaves, and even the one-winged owl that perched on the lemon tree at the back (the priest apparently had an arrangement with several of the local children to provide mice), but the bird that was crouched on a small stand beside the table seemed to be an actual pelican. It stank ripely of fish, and Father Benitez was feeding it more. "Where did you get it?" Diego asked, thoroughly distracted by the unpleasant smell.

"The dockman down at San Pedro," he shook his head sadly. "His dog had got hold of it. The dog didn't fare much better…."

Diego smiled. "If you're keeping it as a pet, I'm not sure I'll visit you out here quite as often."

Finished with the bird, Padre Benitez turned away and rinsed his hands from a bucket. "Yes, the smell is quite something, isn't it? Fortunately, I think she'll be well enough to take back to the shore in a week or two." He didn't smile, neither at Diego's small joke nor at the good news about his feathered patient. "Shall we go inside? The smell is much nicer and this should be a private conversation anyway."

Trying not to sigh, Diego followed.

"Would you care for some tea? Only mint, I'm afraid…."

"Yes, thank you," Diego said, because it would be rude to turn it down.

So a few minutes were lost to calling for Carlito and waiting for the tea to be served and then an errand for him manufactured so that they were alone in the small house and finally, finally, Father Benitez set his tea cup down and said, "Against my strongest advice against it, Vargas has sworn before God that he did not rob the bank. I assume you can see what this means?"

"He is an atheist?" Diego suggested miserably.

"I'm pleased you find this funny, dear boy. A show of optimism is very reassuring. The prisoner faces hanging for bank robbery and his predicament is entirely your fault."

Diego gave up fiddling with his own tea and set the cup and saucer down. "That is not fair. I did not hold a pistol to Ramone's head and tell him to fake a bank robbery."

"With this little game you have been playing, you might as well have. Our alcalde loves money and his own skin far more than he loves honesty or justice. You threatened both. Surely you could see that sooner or later he would do something rash. And now some poor, random stranger looks to pay the price."

"We won't let him hang," Diego protested. "Ramone means to try him before the magistrate. There was only the one witness, no other evidence - "

"And that will be very helpful if the judge we get this time is the honest one. The other can be bought."

"Then we will break him out! It isn't difficult."

"And he can live the rest of his life on the run, a fugitive? How very helpful of you."

Unable to sit still any longer, Diego stood up and paced. "We will solve this. We will. We can always expose Ramone, if it comes to that."

"He's had several months to cover his tracks. How good, really, is your evidence?"

"Only a little better than the evidence against Vargas," Diego answered. He felt his shoulders dip. "There is always the chance that he really did rob the bank."

The priest didn't answer that.

_~TBC_


	2. Feb 10, 1815

_ I own neither the characters nor the situations (and not even the plots). _

**Feb 10, 1815**

"But if you're from up by Immaculate Conception why go all the way to de Alcala with your furs? It makes no sense."

Vargas sighed. "Our uncle was the assistant harbor master there. It's a long trip, but my brother and I took turns making it once a year. It was nice to see him, yeah?"

Diego straightened. "That's wonderful news. He can vouch for you - "

Vargas shook his head. "He died about three months ago. We hadn't gotten word. Anyway, the buyer was a little late, and I had to wait for him. I was in a hurry to get home before my brother starts to worry."

Diego nodded. The story was consistent with what he'd said the day before. He didn't think Vargas was a liar, although it would have been convenient if he were. Either way, justice was the point here, and it would be easier to get it if the accused were guilty….

That was a very lazy thought, and unkind besides. Still, in the absence of a guilty client was not an insurmountable problem. If Vargas' innocence was an inconvenience for Diego it was a disaster for the prosecution. The prosecutor would have to prove a lie.

As a bonus, the prosecutor in question was Mendoza, a man who thought in straight lines, was a bad liar, and disliked confrontation. The only evidence was the statement of the bank clerk, a timid little man who had made a report to Mendoza and then taken to his bed (he boarded with Senora Ortiz, who made the best cheese in the territory) complaining of heart palpitations. Diego found himself unsympathetic; it wasn't the trauma of a robbery that laid so heavily on him, it was his conscience at bearing false witness.

"Is there anyone who could vouch that you were on legitimate business?"

Vargas shrugged.

"You could take a little more interest in your defense," Diego said, irked. "This is very serious business. If you are found guilty you may hang."

"I won't hang. I'll be out of here in a day or two at most."

"I'm not that good," Diego pointed out.

"Oh, not _you_ – not that I don't appreciate what you are trying to do. I wouldn't have expected it in this corrupt little town." He looked around the little cell. "My brother will rip this pueblo apart when he finds out what is going on here."

The door to the inner office slammed open so hard bits of adobe chipped out where the handle hit. Startled, Diego turned around. A huge man was coming through the doorway. It was a good, high, military doorway, but the man was so tall he had to duck down to get through. He had to twist as well, to haul something else in behind him.

He was carrying Luis Ramone by the throat. The alcalde's face was purple and his feet were a full foot above the floor. Diego gaped.

"Nestor!" Vargas had leapt to his feet, grinning.

"Ricky!" The giant crowed. He dropped the alcalde, who slumped to the ground like a sack of grain and seized two of the bars of the cell. He set his feet and pulled until the bars began to bend to either side.

"I have a key," Ramone croaked, coughing.

The bars squeaked slightly as they arced closer to their neighbors.

"I knew you'd come," Vargas said happily. "I was framed, Nestor. They said I robbed a bank."

"Come on. Let's go home."

Diego tried to collect his wits. "Not so fast, my friends. Enrique, if you leave now, you'll be branded a fugitive. You can't run."

The huge man looked down at Diego in puzzlement. "But he never did it," he said reasonably.

"He's been arrested. He has to stand trial and be proven innocent otherwise….He'll be a fugitive. They'll put a price on his head."

"That's not fair."

The alcalde slowly climbed to his feet. "It's the law," he said piously.

Enrique looked up at his brother. "He's right."

"What do we do, Ricky?"

"You must stay and face the charges. It won't be long; the magistrate is expected any day. I'm defending him." Diego cleared his throat. "I promise you, Senor. If your brother is innocent, I'll get him acquitted."

Nestor Vargas eyed Diego narrowly. He glanced at his brother for confirmation and then slowly nodded. "You'd better. Or this will be your head." He lifted the water bucket from its hook on the wall, tipped the water onto the floor, and crushed the bucket in his hands. He turned to the alcalde. "And yours. And everyone else's who had a hand in this ugly plot. Just wait until I get my hands on the man who captured him…."

Nestor tossed the pieces aside and turned back to Enrique. "There is a tavern across the way. Let's go get some lunch, eh?"

After a long silence the alcalde straightened his clothing.

Diego fingered the bent bars. "You could arrest the big one for damaging government property." He stepped through the gap out of the cell.

"I had the key," the alcalde said irritably. After a moment he added, "Where would I hold him, eh?"

"You have a garrison full of men," Diego said.

For a moment the alcalde looked tempted. Then he scowled and muttered, "Assuming they could manage to hit the ox, how many musket balls do you think he could take before he went down?"

Diego almost protested that the lancers weren't really all _that_ bad; it was only a habit by now to assume that Zorro was invincible, and they didn't try very hard. Instead he said, "I suppose I'll call it a day."

**Filipe**

Diego had left him at home. He had not been spending enough time on his schoolwork lately, and while, yes, the newspaper was an education in itself, it didn't teach geometry or chemistry and interrupting the curriculum further by the needs of this legal case was just not acceptable.

When his first argument failed, Felipe tried to protest that Diego was not allowed to go into town by himself. When Don Alejandro had finally been told about the 'arrangement' Diego had made with the alcalde, he had been practically incandescent with rage. For half an hour he had berated – very quietly, since this was not a topic that could be overheard – both of the twins for taking such a terrible risk, for skirting the bounds of honesty, for subjecting Diego to the added strain, for keeping him in the dark…it had been very unpleasant. Diego and Gilberto had not tried to defend themselves; they were keeping too many secrets to emphasize this one.

At last, Don Alejandro had stopped and eyed Diego narrowly. "Is it working?"

"So far, Father."

He sighed. He kissed Diego on both cheeks. "It is a daring and brilliant plan and you are a genius, my son, and if you leave this hacienda without an escort, I will lock you in your room and throw away the key."

"Yes, Father," Diego answered meekly. He had been careful all along, but after that discussion he was scrupulous about not going out alone. Felipe had thought he might be able to use that.

No such luck. "Yes, and that is why today I will take Tomas and Pablo. They can wait in the tavern while I interview Vargas. It will be fine. Felipe, it would be boring for you anyway…."

"I could do my homework in town!"

For a moment he hesitated. "No. We'll see how much you get done today. Maybe tomorrow."

But concentrating with Diego out of the house was difficult. It was made harder by the fact that he was sharing the library with Gilberto. He had spread out maps and lists across the desk and the divan, and he kept scribbling and pacing and sometimes humming to himself. Apparently he was trying to learn about weather. Which was just _strange_. Weather was not that complicated, and Felipe himself knew quite a bit about it. He had even seen snow once, on a hunting trip with Don Alejandro up in the mountains. It had been years ago, just after the twins had gone to Spain, but Felipe could remember how impossibly, sharply cold it had been…and the way the individual flakes had been so tiny and so perfect….

And he was far too easily distracted. At this rate he would never finish these proofs and he would be stuck here tomorrow, too….

The front door shut hard and a moment later Diego came into the library. He patted Felipe absently on the shoulder and collected the slate from his hands before sitting down.

Gilberto glanced up and scanned him quickly before turning back to his maps. "How goes the defense?" he asked sourly.

Diego gazed unseeingly at Felipe's geometry. "There has been a development in the case, actually."

"Oh? Did Vargas confess at last?"

"No. I am almost completely convinced he is innocent."

"Oh, _not_ this again!"

"Berto, if you had a younger brother who was nearly two feet taller than you and built like a bull, would you leave him _behind_ when you robbed a bank?"

"What? In your _dreams_ you are two feet taller - "

"Oh, no. Not me. Nestor Vargas."

There was a long pause. Gilberto set the pen in the inkwell. "You exaggerate."

"He is at least a foot taller than I am."

"Impossible…." And then, "His _brother_?"

Diego sagged. "His doting, adoring brother. Would you let me rob a bank without you?" He groaned. "If I robbed a bank, wouldn't you _know_ if I were guilty or not?"

"If you robbed a bank, I would not _care_ if you were guilty; that this man _Nestor_ vouches for his brother means nothing!"

"Vouches? Nothing so easy. He bent the bars on the cell and took Enrique for lunch at the tavern."

"He bent…."

"Yes." Diego passed his hand over his face.

"So Vargas has escaped."

"Oh, no. They are going to stay for the trial. And if Enrique is found guilty, Nestor is going to raze our corrupt pueblo to the ground."

Gilberto jumped to his feet, but since there was nothing actually to _do_, he only stood and stared.

"The alcalde picked the wrong man for his scapegoat," Diego said sadly.

"So…let us say you are right and Vargas has been set up and Luis Ramone is about to face the consequences of his little frauds and games. Perhaps that is a good thing. If Vargas is, in fact, innocent."

Diego took a deep breath and shifted uneasily. "Nestor is also after the hide of the man who captured his brother in the first place."

"Oh, of course he is," Gilberto snarled disgustedly. "Isn't that lovely. I suppose you are going to say 'I told you so'?"

Diego only looked worried.

"A foot taller than you?" Gilberto asked uncertainly.

Diego nodded. "Quite a bit broader, too."

Slowly, Gilberto sat down and shrugged. "You'll win the case." He picked up the pen again. "It's nothing to worry about."

"Certainly not. I never said I was worried. However, since you now seem to be on my side of this, perhaps you would consider doing me a little favor?"

Gilberto smiled slightly. "Just a small one."

"Or two."

"Since you mention it."

_tbc_


	3. Feb 13, 1815

**Feb 13, 1815**

**Alejandro **

Diego was convinced that Vargas was an innocent patsy the alcalde was using to conceal his own fraud and embezzlement. He might well be right. It made a certain amount of sense. Under the circumstances, Don Alejandro would much rather have kept Diego out of the entire affair, but as Diego pointed out he was already involved. And poor Vargas, if he was only a victim, deserved help from an advocate who actually believed he was innocent.

Still, even Diego's earnest help might not be enough. The magistrate had finally arrived, and it was not (as they'd hoped) Bernardo de la Paz. It was Victor Coloma, who was rumored to be closed-minded when it came to evidence and open-minded when it came to bribes.

Diego had fretted over this all day on Saturday, after word came that he had arrived. "You know the alcalde will pay him off. There is no point in pretending," he growled.

"So you are giving up?" Alejandro asked.

"No! I…am thinking of making a counter-bribe."

"I hope you are telling me this because you expect me to talk you out of it. Two wrongs don't make a right. Subverting the law - "

"Father, if this man dies, it will be my fault!"

Alejandro folded his arms. "You are not responsible for someone else's crime."

"I am responsible if I fail to stop him!" He sagged sadly against the back of the chair. "Father, this opportunity….I am so _close_. If I can get the bank clerk to make a mistake on the witness stand….I could take down the alcalde, too. I'm sure of it. If there is any justice at all – but Coloma -"

"So which is your priority? Saving Vargus? Or seeing our alcalde face justice?"

Diego closed his eyes. "This opportunity….But, no, you're right. The priority is to get Vargas out of this alive. The rest of it can wait….there must be some way. Some other way. Ramone will make another mistake. Sooner or later." Diego had gotten quiet after that.

As bad as the situation was, it actually got worse on Sunday morning. When they got to town everyone was abuzz with the news that the bank clerk, Marco Seva, had died in the night. His landlady had found him when he didn't appear for the wagon ride in for church. According to the doctor, his heart had failed. The poor man had been terribly shaken by the robbery, and he was hardly young or robust….

Diego had paced the library all Sunday afternoon, growling at everyone who approached him. Alejandro indulged it until suppertime. "Diego, you must eat."

"The alcalde surely killed him," he answered distractedly, staring at the tip of his quill. The ink had dried.

"Even if you're right about the conspiracy between them, it might have been the terrible strain of the lie that killed him. The poor man had to have believed that the 'bankrobber' would never be actually caught and tried. I can't imagine how he felt, knowing he was actually having to bear false witness tomorrow."

"Father, I can name six compounds that could cause the death the doctor described. I've _taken_ two of them. His death is too convenient to be anything but murder."

"All right. As you say," Alejandro sighed. "If you are right about the conspiracy, you are probably right about the murder. Do you have any proof?"

"Father, you know I haven't!"

"Then stop fretting over it and focus on what you must do tomorrow. And get something to eat. Hungry men don't think clearly."

"Dinner? This is serious!"

Alejandro knew it was, but he didn't try to argue with Diego. He just gave him a hard look until he slammed down the pen and came to dinner with bad grace.

Diego hadn't asked for advice, which was just as well. What could he say? As proud as Alejandro was of the character his son was showing – both the risks he had taken originally and his willingness to accept responsibility for the consequences – he could offer no solution to the current problem. Worse, he couldn't help fretting a little about Diego's stamina…and dreading quite a lot the toll a failure here might take on his health. How could he weigh the value of a principle against the life of his son? If Diego did ask for his opinion, Alejandro might well encourage him to give up or somehow cheat. Diego would never forgive him for that.

The next morning Diego came to breakfast in his best suit. He was on time and ate diligently, while flipping through some kind of ledger. He was calm and resolved, and Alejandro found that reassuring. He did not, this once, criticize him for reading at the table.

Gilberto, on the other hand, had huge circles under his eyes. He picked at his food. When Alejandro asked if he was all right, he smiled oddly and said, "I feel as though I have hardly slept in three days. I think Diego's trial is giving me nightmares."

With Gilberto half asleep and Diego's mind elsewhere the only conversation at breakfast was with Felipe, and since the boy couldn't easily talk while holding a fork, not much was said by anyone.

It was still early, but they went in to town anyway. There was already a small crowd gathering in the plaza: a trial was always entertainment, and this time many people had an interest in the outcome because of the money in the bank.

In the tavern, the tables had been cleared aside and all the chairs and benches had been set in orderly rows so that the magistrate could preside over a small court. Tables had been set near the front for the judge, the prosecutor, and the defense. It made a passable showing of being 'official' despite being makeshift and frontier.

After helping Diego carry in his bundle of books and documents, Alejandro took Felipe and went to finds seats. He intended to sit at the back, since that would give him a better view of the onlookers, but he bumped into Don Emilio, who greeted him very politely and invited him to sit down. There was no civil way to refuse, so Alejandro found himself sitting nearly at the front and next to Emilio Pascal. In a cheerful mood, the young man complained absently about the lack of little luxuries these days. This was a considerable improvement on his usual conversation, which often centered on malicious gossip about the neighbors or complaints about the laziness and ineptitude of peons. Alejandro managed to nod politely. His mind was on Diego.

Gilberto, coming in, shot him an amused glance and walked casually around to sit on the other side of Felipe. Surely Alejandro only imagined that he was gloating at having two people between himself and Don Emilio.

Nestor Vargas entered. He sat down directly behind Diego. Alejandro dismissed the tiny stab of anxiety that accompanied the sight of the implicit menace. Like everyone else in town, he had heard the rumors about Vargas' threats if his brother was convicted.

The brother himself was coming in now. Enrique Vargas was accompanied by two lancers who stood very straight and wore very clean uniforms. Diego rose smoothly and turned to greet his client. He was smiling with such casual confidence that Alejandro almost had to wonder if this was a completely different person then he had been living with for the last several days. When had Diego become such a marvelous actor?

Mendoza, when he entered, was much less composed, but he always seemed a bit anxious on court days. He was a soldier, not a law man at heart. He never enjoyed criminal proceedings. At least that was one advantage Diego had. Alejandro was fairly sure Diego wouldn't let his friendship with the sergeant prevent him from exploiting that small edge.

Beside him, Don Emilio took out his pocket watch and scowled. "They should be getting started by now. No disrespect to Diego's little diversion playing at advocate, but I hope they find him guilty quickly and execute him today. I'm supposed to get _married_ tomorrow. Amanda will be furious if we have to have a ghastly corpse in the plaza ruining everything."

For just a moment, Alejandro could not even think what to say – and then he spent the _next_ moment stopping himself from saying the words that came to mind. Now was not the time to point out publically what a disgrace to humanity in general Emilio Pascal was. "In that case, perhaps you should hope for acquittal," he suggested.

That earned him a scowl. "Zorro may be a blight on the territory, but he does catch bandits," he answered sourly.

The minutes dragged on. The seats were all full now, and half the town seemed to be packed in at the back of the room. Mendoza was shuffling earnestly though a very small book. Diego, his head bent toward the smaller man, was conversing calmly with his client.

The alcalde came in and gave a very long speech about the rule of law and the social contract. He said all the right words, and his delivery was earnest and charming. He spoke with an amazing amount of passion for a man whom everyone knew was lying. Alejandro folded his arms and schooled his expression to patience.

Finally, nearly half an hour late, the magistrate appeared in the doorway. Coloma paused for a long time to look over the room. As the gathered citizens came to their feet he almost seemed to sway backwards. Then he stalked to the center table and motioned everyone to sit. For a moment he scanned the crowded room before sitting down himself and calling the assembly to order in the name of the king.

Alejandro thought Coloma might be sweating. He was a thin man, older than the alcalde and not quite as handsome. After a long silence, he ordered Mendoza to present the charges. It didn't take long.

"And how does the defendant plead?"

Diego rose smoothly. "Not guilty."

"Very well. We shall proceed with - "

There was a crash from the kitchen, the sort of sound made by a large metal pot falling. Everyone jumped, but Coloma leapt to his feet so quickly he knocked his chair over. He looked around frantically and then froze. Someone in the back giggled nervously.

Coloma pounded the gavel angrily. "I call a ten minute recess. Perhaps in that time you can manage to collect the proper respect for a court of law."

He vanished out the door in a very undignified hurry.

In the silence that followed, Mendoza said helplessly, "But we had only just _started_…."

The crowd shuffled and then began to talk quietly together. Don Emilio wondered lazily if Coloma had eaten something that disagreed with him. Victoria left her seat at the back of the room and went to check on the kitchen. Diego rose slowly, patted Vargas on the shoulder, and came down the aisle signing too rapidly to follow.

Alejandro expected Felipe to jump to his feet on some errand, but it was Gilberto who answered with a signed proclamation of his own innocence and harmlessness.

Diego was looming over his brother now. "There is help," he ground out softly, "and help I don't need."

"What did he do?" Alejandro asked mystified.

"Nothing, Father," Gilberto whispered, hopping to his feet and drawing Diego smoothly to the door and onto the porch.

Alejandro looked after them for a moment and turned to Felipe. "What was that about?"

Felipe shrugged with far too much bewilderment for it to be genuine. Damn it. "Tell me Gilberto is _not_ deliberately provoking his brother!" Not now, surely. Not with Diego under so much pressure and a man's life at stake.

Felipe shook his head vigorously. Alejandro would have pursued it, but Diego came stalking back in. He didn't look around but returned to his place at the table. Gilberto just smiled affably as he resumed his seat.

It was slightly more than ten minutes before the judge came back. He resumed the trial and asked Mendoza and Diego to give general statements before moving on to the evidence.

The prosecution didn't have very much. Mendoza submitted an accounting sheet showing how much money was missing and a description of the events given by the poor, deceased bank clerk.

Diego objected at the irregularity of not having the witness present to testify to the incident or identify the alleged perpetrator. Mendoza, looking horrified, said "But, Don Diego, he has _died_," as though Diego had somehow forgotten, and Coloma immediately pronounced, "Quite right. Under the circumstances, the evidence will stand!" but almost at once his vehemence vanished and he glanced around nervously.

Diego filled the rest of the morning with testimony from three lancers who had been on duty that morning in the plaza. Patiently, he had each recount the day. One had noticed the stranger Vargas near the bank, but none had seen him coming out carrying a huge bag of stolen gold. It was, Alejandro thought, rather dull.

**Diego**

For the noon break, Diego retreated to the Guardian office. Felipe brought him a lunch tray and hovered for several minutes, suggesting things Diego might need. More soup? More water? Was there anyone he needed to see? Could Felipe carry a message?

It seemed to take forever to convince Felipe that he could safely leave Diego by himself, but he needed a little time alone to think.

The morning had gone more or less as Diego had expected – notwithstanding the magistrate's incongruous nervousness. Gilberto –

Gilberto, he reminded himself, had been invaluable these last few days. He had gone out every night, patiently listening at windows and watching the movements of the alcalde. He had searched the bank clerk's old room and the bank itself as well as the alcalde's private estate, his office, and his rooms in the cuertel. He had been tireless and diligent and he had managed to produce enough evidence to at least cast doubt on Vargas' guilt. It was not his fault that he hadn't found more….

As it was, he'd done more than Diego would have liked. Zorro had also paid a visit to the judge last night. Gilberto had promised, during his brief confession on the porch, that he had not done anything illegal or immoral. Diego, sitting close enough to Coloma to be sure that the man was terrified, was not so sure. And he did not know what he would do if Gilberto had, in fact, crossed a line…

Perhaps – _perhaps_ – it was only Nestor Vargas that frightened Coloma. He certainly had the alcalde nervous. But Coloma scarcely looked at Vargas. He was too busy searching the room for some invisible threat….

Diego looked unhappily at his lunch and forced himself to take another bite of bread. Court would resume after siesta. There was so little time –

The door opened and shut again. With a little click, Gilberto pushed home the bolt. "You have so little faith in me, little brother."

"Coloma was terrified this morning. Yesterday at church he was - he was - "

"I think 'smug' is the word you are looking for." He took a long swallow of lemonade from Diego's untouched glass. "If he is terrified now, it is only because his conscience is bothering him."

"He doesn't have a reputation for having one," Diego protested. "Whatever _little talk_ you had - "

Gilberto sat down, eying Diego sternly. "Zorro only told him that if the verdict he reached wasn't justified by the evidence presented, he would kill him very slowly."

"You didn't!"

"Don't look so horrified. He has nothing to worry about as long as he acts reasonably."

"We might as well have bribed him," Diego hissed.

Gilberto drew himself up indignantly. "Hardly. You still have to win the case. Unless he has already been bribed to subvert justice, he has nothing to fear." He selected a bit of chicken from Diego's plate, wrapped it in a chunk of bread and handed it to him. "Eat this. And stop being scandalized. I was very reasonable. He understands that if the defense can't make a case he is free to rule appropriately. I only ensured he would do his job honestly. You can't complain about that."

Diego already had, and it hadn't gotten him anywhere. He forced himself to take a bite of the food.

Gilberto handed him the lemonade. "So? Can you establish his innocence?"

"Maybe," he hedged.

"The ledger - "

"Oh, yes. The ledger establishes that the money was embezzledfrom the bank by _some_one. And the alcalde would be the obvious choice. But I don't have the evidence to implicate him directly. If we can't prove charges against him….I think one way or another he will see that this crime is laid on Enrique, and he will close the issue with an execution. He will do anything to keep himself safe."

Gilberto slumped slightly. "I hoped we had him this time. Are you sure - "

Diego stood up. "Father asked what my priority was. It has to be saving Enrique. He is completely innocent - "

"I _know_ that," Gilberto said angrily. "I know. I'm sorry that I went racing out like a

- "

Diego slapped a hand over his brother's mouth. Even in the newspaper office behind thick adobe walls, he couldn't be yelling apologies for Zorro's mistakes.

"What will you do?" Gilberto whispered when Diego moved back.

Diego thought of the beautiful ledger Zorro had found in his nightly forays. All that lost sleep had produced a treasure at last: proof of twelve thousand pesos teased away from the bank a little at a time. It was enough money to cover the construction of the new aqueduct, an expense the alcalde had been feeling very sharply since Diego had caught him cutting corners and embezzling money from _that_….

There was no doubt in Diego's mind that Luis Ramone had been behind it, but he could not prove it.

Sadly, Diego sat down. "I'll lay the blame on the bank clerk, Seva. It isn't fair: he only had a minor part in the theft and framing Enrique, and he's surely already been punished enough. But if the alcalde isn't implicated he'll have no reason to scapegoat Enrique, and with Nestor in town and the judge cowed by Zorro, that may be enough. I hope it is enough."

Gilberto nodded unhappily.

"I'm sorry." Diego said, "If I could do better -"

"No, you're right. This is the best we can hope for. And if this strategy doesn't work…." He sighed. There was always Zorro. Enrique would not enjoy spending his life on the run from the law, but it was better than not being alive at all. "I suppose we better quarrel."

"What, so you can disappear? Father will be furious."

"Even better. He won't wonder why he can't find me if I'm avoiding him. Are you ready?" He rose and laid his hand on the bolt.

"Wait. What are we arguing about?"

"The case of course. I'm telling you how to do your job." He flung the door open behind him and shouted, "Pardon me for not letting you fall flat on your face!"

Diego stood up. "Don't flatter yourself. The day I need _your_ advice on an intellectual matter will come long after the world has ended."

Gilberto rolled his eyes at that, and really, it _had_ been absurdly weak. Diego signed a tiny apology with his left hand: he wasn't used to having to _think_ about arguing with Gilberto. It felt terribly artificial.

"Your arrogance will embarrass the entire family. You're in over your head this time, Diego."

"As though you've been paying enough attention to even notice! You were this lazy at school -"

Gilberto winked his approval, shouted, "Pardon me if I don't stay to watch you humiliate yourself!" and slammed the door.

Feeling oddly reassured, Diego sat down and finished his lunch.

**Felipe**

Even though many people had packed a picnic lunch, it was still too crowded to eat at the tavern. Luckily, he could slip away from the important people who were being served inside. After taking Diego his tray, Felipe joined the vaqueros and small farmers and bought a quick lunch at the table that had been set up beside the tavern porch. The food was pretty good: a tortilla packed with beans and rice, a hunk of cheese, a couple of apples and a bread thing stuffed with cabbage, all wrapped neatly in a napkin. The bread and cabbage thing was probably Russian. Victoria must have hired Senora Neilson to help with the crowd for the trial. The table was nearly sold out by the time he got there. Victoria always made money when court was in session.

He took his lunch over to the fountain and sat on the edge to eat. He had a good view of everything from there. Town was churning with people, even busier than on market day. In the shade of the church someone was playing the guitar while a dozen picnickers looked on. On the other side of the plaza some young men were lining up, taking turns wrestling each other. A band of children ran past the fountain, chasing after a hoop and yelling at a volume Felipe found astonishing.

Amid the crowd he almost didn't notice Gilberto standing in the doorway of the newspaper office having a huge fight with Diego. Felipe couldn't tell what the yelling was about, but people were turning to look. When Gilberto slammed the door and turned away he was red in the face –

Outraged, Felipe leapt to his feet and darted forward to intercept Gilberto. How could he, _today_, pick a fight with Diego? Felipe snatched at his arm. Without meeting his eyes, Gilberto brushed him aside and continued on his way.

Stumbling, Felipe gazed at Gilberto's retreating back in shock. For just a moment the betrayal was so sharp that he couldn't draw breath. How _could_ he - ?

And then he felt like a complete fool. Of course Gilberto couldn't. He hadn't. This was some game the twins were playing. Sighing, Felipe went back to the fountain and cleaned up the remains of his lunch. Then he went to the newspaper office.

Diego glanced up from the ledger open in front of him. "Has something happened?"

"Gilberto is a jerk," Felipe answered, toeing the door shut.

"Oh. Not too awful, I hope?"

Felipe shrugged. "Convincing."

Diego looked up and gave him a hard look. "I'm sorry. Whatever he said to you, he didn't mean it."

Felipe didn't admit how long it had taken him to figure that out. Instead, he asked, "What are we concealing?"

"If I cannot get Enrique acquitted, Zorro will have to rescue him. Hopefully before Nestor kills anyone."

Felipe patted him on the shoulder. Diego smiled faintly.

Felipe checked to see how much of the lunch was eaten.

"_Yes_, I am taking care of myself. Hmmm. Perhaps it is just as well you came in. You can deliver this for me." He handed Felipe a folded note. It was addressed to Dr. Hernandez. At Felipe's inquiring look he sighed. "I will not need his testimony. Well, there is no point in establishing that the clerk could have been murdered unless I can produce a betraying coconspirator who had motive to do it. It would serve as a distraction." He sighed again. "Go on. I have more work to do here."

"You should rest."

"Tonight. I promise. This will all be over soon."

The first thing Diego did after the magistrate reconvened the trial was bring in Old Juan and Tomas. They were pushing a small wheelbarrow and escorted by two armed lancers. "Your honor, I respectfully submit an exhibit of twelve thousand pesos in gold." He motioned Juan to open the neck of the sack in the wheelbarrow and then stand back so everyone could see. The crowd leaned forward, craning to see around one another.

The magistrate gaped for a moment. "Then…this is the stolen money? The thief told you where it was hidden?"

Diego shook his head. "This is a demonstration. Five thousand comes from my father's safe, another three from Don Roberto Segovia, and the rest I borrowed from various neighbors." He held up a sheet of paper. "I have an accounting here, but perhaps…" he turned toward Sargent Mendoza, "If you wanted to dispute the actual amount, we can have it officially counted….?"

The sergeant gaped and glanced around for the alcalde. "Um. That is, no, Don Diego. You are very honest. I mean, if you _say_ that that is twelve thousand pesos then I, ah -"

"Very well," the magistrate cut in. "The court accepts that as twelve thousand pesos…and _not_ the pesos that were stolen from the bank." He smiled slyly. "What is the purpose of this…exhibit?"

"Sargent, would you give the exhibit to His Honor for the court's inspection?"

"Oh, certainly, Don Diego," he said agreeably and bent down to take the bag. It didn't move. After two tries he signaled to one of the waiting lancers to help him. Straining, they lifted the bag, but could not heft it up onto the table. The other lancer rushed forward and between the three of them they set the bag in place. The table creaked ominously.

The magistrate blinked at the sack and swallowed hard.

Diego stood up and motioned his client to stand beside him. "This man, who is nearly half the size of the sergeant, is supposed to have carried such a sack all by himself."

In the crowd someone tittered. The magistrate demanded silence.

Diego continued. "And on the same topic, there is something that has been bothering me about this case. As a man who also has distinct physical limitations _and_ a much stronger brother, I cannot imagine why Enrique Vargas would rob a bank alone." He turned and smiled sweetly at the giant. "Nestor? Would you mind?"

Silently, the giant plucked the bag of gold from the table and placed it back in the wheelbarrow. The room was very quiet, but whether it was respect for the huge man or the absurd amount of money, Felipe couldn't have said.

After a long moment, the magistrate said, "This is very dramatic, Senor de le Vega, but it proves nothing."

Diego shook his head. "In fact, it proves that he could not have robbed the bank. It proves that the statement left by the clerk - the entire case against Enrique Vargas - could not be true."

Mendoza turned to him with earnest outrage. "But Don Diego, Zorro caught him fleeing from the scene of the crime!"

"On the contrary. The crime took place a long time before last Wednesday. For my next witness, I would like to call Luis Ramone to the stand."

The magistrate scowled. "He wasn't a witness. He was eating in the tavern when the robbery occurred."

"Is there some limitation on the witnesses I am free to call?" Diego asked sweetly.

The magistrate opened his mouth and closed it again. "Luis Ramone, Alcalde of Los Angeles is called as the next witness."

As soon as the alcalde was seated before the judge, Diego placed a book in his hands. "Where did you get this?" the alcalde demanded.

"A concerned citizen left it on my doorstep. Do you recognize it?"

"I…yes. It belongs to the bank."

"You are the managing director of the Bank of Los Angeles?"

"Yes." And then, "Zorro must have stolen that." And then, "It is just the most recent daily account book. It has no bearing on the case."

"The daily account book," Diego repeated. "You mean, it keeps track of the money that goes in…and goes out."

"Yes."

"And as the managing director of the bank, you would have looked at this book once or twice a week for the last two years?"

"That one only goes back about nine months, I think. But yes, that book or the one preceding it."

"So you are very familiar with _that_ ledger, and you have never before seen _this_ one?" Diego produced another book from the stack on his table and laid it in the alcalde's hands.

There was a moment of silence. The alcalde opened the cover and turned a few of the pages. "No," he said carefully. "I have never seen this before."

Diego smiled. "But it is also a ledger of the Bank of Los Angeles."

"I have never seen it before," louder, more firmly this time.

"No. Of course you haven't. This second ledger was kept was kept by the clerk. It documents a shocking embezzlement of money from the bank over the last three months."

Another long pause. "I would have to examine it to be sure."

"But I assume you could tell us right now if you recognized the hand the records were kept in? And if you can't, I'm certain his landlady, Senora Ortiz, could?"

"No, I…recognize the hand. It's Marco's, I can confirm that, at least. As for the rest, I would have to examine the ledger in detail…."

Gently, Diego lifted it from his hand and laid it on the table before the magistrate. "The defense has no other evidence," he said. "Enrique Vargas did not rob the bank. Marco Seva did. He embezzled from the bank and then, to cover his crime, he framed the first convenient stranger to enter the bank alone."

There was a long silence. The magistrate lifted the book carefully. "I will have to take this under consideration. We will adjourn until tomorrow morning."

The magistrate banged his gavel. He rose. He swept out.

Inside the tavern, the crowd was silent for a long moment. Diego, smooth and unruffled, turned to have a word with first Enrique Vargas and then with Mendoza. Slowly, as the shock wore off, other people began to speak. Very quickly the whispers became an uncomfortable roar that Felipe could not follow at all. Wincing he followed Don Alejandro to collect Diego and carry all his books and papers out to the carriage.

"Where can your brother have gotten to? I don't see his horse."

Diego sank back against the seat and sighed. "I expect he went home."

"Did he?" Don Alejandro paused. "Carlos says the two of you were…quarreling?"

"If you can call it that," Diego smiled thinly. "I picked a fight with him. I felt much better afterwards."

"Diego….Your impulse to protect him is commendable. But…you cannot protect him from the consequences of his behavior forever, and giving you grief today, when so much depended on you…." He scowled.

"He didn't antagonize me. It was the other way around. I promise you, Father. Gilberto has done nothing wrong." He sat forward and rested a hand on his father's arm. "Please. He has been more help to me today than you can imagine."

Clearly unconvinced, Don Alejandro opened his mouth to argue – and then closed it firmly. "As you say." He was humoring Diego, not agreeing with him.

Diego sighed and glanced around, but the carriage was already past the town gate. Very slowly and clearly, Diego signed, "It was not the fox who stole the books. It was Gilberto."

The astonishment dawned slowly, as Don Alejandro parsed the statement at least twice. "Never!" he said.

Diego nodded and leaned back again. "If you scold him for this, he will know I tattled on him."

"Scold him? It was magnificent!" He struggled to keep his voice low. "The thought freezes my blood, of course, but – dear God, Gilberto! Hmmm. Do you know, I am not nearly as surprised as I ought to be. But…why didn't he tell me?"

Tiredly, Diego pushed his hair off his forehead. "It would put you in an awkward position if you knew. Does put you in an awkward position." He stopped. "Papa, he doesn't want your approval for doing something stupid and desperate. And illegal. Gilberto is Gilberto: difficult and annoying and vain. A grand gesture like this doesn't change that." Diego, apparently just then noticing what he had said, abruptly shut his mouth and turned to look at the meadow they were passing by.

"I love your brother very much, Diego," Don Alejandro said softly.

Diego nodded. "Of course."

For a moment it seemed as though Don Alejandro would say something else, but he suddenly turned to look at the meadow on the other side of the carriage. Felipe decided to pretend that he hadn't heard this conversation at all.

At home, Diego retreated wearily to his room and left his father to supervise Felipe and Juan in returning the demonstration money to the neighbors who came by to collect. There was a great deal of it, and with so much wealth to get safely home no one stayed to socialize.

When the last of the neighbors had gone Don Alejandro shoed Felipe off so he could have a few moments to lock his own money away. He went check on Diego, who had fallen asleep with his shoes on and an unfinished letter still in his hand. Sighing, Felipe roused him enough to remove the shoes and jacket at least.

Two hours later, at suppertime, Diego was still sleeping. Standing in the doorway where they could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, Felipe and Don Alejandro glanced at each other a bit helplessly. Diego was tired, but it was nothing to worry about, surely. He was lying flat and he wasn't very pale. If he needed to rest, well, it was hardly a surprise…..

Felipe and Don Alejandro had dinner alone. Gilberto still hadn't come home. He hadn't left word with anyone, but after his public quarrel with Diego, his absence was not a mystery. Don Alejandro pointedly did not mention it.

Felipe could imagine Zorro watching over the roads as caballeros took their money home. Yes, and after that, he would slip into town to keep an eye on the alcalde and Coloma. He would be busy, and hungry when he got home. Felipe would have to make sure he got some kind of dinner.

Felipe was so distracted with that line of thought that he spotted the tablecloth with a fat drop of gravy. Fortunately, Don Alejandro was distracted enough himself that he didn't notice.

After supper, Felipe did school work by lamplight in the library until Don Alejandro retired. Maria had already gone off to bed by then, so Felipe put away the geometry book and fixed a tray of snacks for Diego. Actually, it was unlikely that Diego would wake or that he would be hungry if he did, but the tray gave him an opportunity to put aside some dinner for Gilberto.

It was well after midnight before he heard hoof beats in the passage. Felipe roused from his doze and turned up the lamp. Toronado was spattered with mud and flecked with lather. Felipe took his head while Zorro dismounted.

"How is he?"

Felipe shrugged.

"Was he ill?"

Felipe shook his head and began to unsaddle Toronado.

"That's something, at least." Zorro stripped off his hat and mask, suddenly only Gilberto again, sweaty and tired and frowning.

Felipe set down the saddle and paused to ask, "What has happened?"

"Who knows? Oh." He saw the cup of wine and bread and cold beans Felipe had laid out for him. "Thank you." He sighed and took a long swallow from the cup. "I don't know where we stand. The alcalde and the judge both ate in the tavern, very proper, very public. And then Ramone went back to his rooms in the curatel and Coloma went upstairs. If they conspired, they were subtle enough to manage it in a room full of people."

"He has to let Vargas go, doesn't he?" Didn't he?

Gilberto sighed again and finished draining the cup. "He should let Vargas go. I assume the alcalde won't push the point, since he hasn't been implicated….But I can't assume it will go as we expect…."

"What are we going to do?"

Gilberto narrowed his eyes. "What _you_ will do, whatever happens, is stay out of the way." He lifted a finger as Felipe moved to protest. "No. Listen. If the verdict comes back guilty, there will be a riot."

The curry comb slid out of Felipe's hand and clattered on the cave floor. Toronado shied slightly at the noise, and Felipe caught his bridle and stroked his nose while glaring at Gilberto.

"I slipped into the kitchen and had a word with Victoria. The sense around town is that Vargas must be acquitted. They won't accept a guilty verdict."

"A riot? But he is a stranger. And not very likable."

Gilberto snorted. "Diego is _very_ likable. And not a stranger. And, frankly, people are tired of the alcalde and his little games with taxes…his contempt for the farmers…the public disciplines…. One more obvious miscarriage of injustice in Los Angeles will just be too much."

Felipe leaned down and picked up the curry comb. He came over and set it on the table beside Gilberto and said, "A riot is a _bad thing_."

"Felipe, if the magistrate rules against Diego…we will have to save Vargas." He bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "This was the best we could come up with."

Felipe thought about that. He swallowed. "What can I do?"

"You? Stay out of the way. No - stay next to Diego. If Vargas is found guilty, get him out through Victoria's kitchen. Right away, you understand. The trial itself was bad enough, I don't want him caught in a mass of people."

"He won't leave Vargus," Felipe protested.

"Hmpf. Of course he will. Nestor will look after Enrique. They will be fine. A man who owes Zorro a favor will be waiting with horses at the edge of town if they need to make an escape. It was not the end we were hoping for but…." He shrugged. "Your part, your _only_ part, is to get Diego out of the way."

Felipe picked up the comb and turned back to Toronado.

"You haven't agreed."

For a moment, he hesitated, hunching his shoulders. He didn't think he was so young or so useless that the best he could do was run and hide when things were dire. "I can help," he protested, half turning.

"Help? Felipe, I am asking you to protect Diego. I can't ask anyone else."

Glumly, Felipe nodded.

"Your promise. Both of you out of the way."

Felipe turned around, rolled his eyes, and firmly signed "Promise."

_~tbc_


	4. Feb14, 1815

**February 14, 1815**

After all the planning and plotting and worry, it turned out that it was all for nothing. As soon as court was called to order, Coloma pronounced Enrique Vargas innocent of the charges of bank robbery. It was the only reasonable verdict, but still, there were several seconds of surprised silence after the words rang out.

Then there was applause. Lots of it. The magistrate called for order. Everyone ignored him. Diego sagged slightly, then pushed up to his feet. He shook hands with Enrique Vargas. He had to duck out of the way as the other Vargas swooped down and picked Enrique up into the air.

Carefully dodging flailing limbs as the bigger Vargas swung the smaller Vargas in circle, Diego edged around them and turned to Sergeant Mendoza. Felipe couldn't hear what he said, but his expression was almost conciliatory. Mendoza cheerfully took the hand Diego offered and then clouted him over the shoulder.

Up front, Coloma gave up and adjourned the trial. He stalked indignantly to the stairs – presumably up to his room. Felipe was a bit embarrassed for Los Angeles; they were being very rude. On the other hand, things had been very tense. People needed a little while to calm down. Perhaps the magistrate even realized how much of a disaster it would have been to give an unpopular verdict.

The push of people trying to congratulate Diego was so thick and enthusiastic that Felipe quickly lost sight of him in the forest of shoulders. It was five minutes before he spotted Diego again, slipping out the door. It took another five minutes for Felipe to edge his way through the crowd so he could follow him.

Diego had only gone as far as the porch. He sat very straight and composed, his hands folded on the table in front of him. Felipe laid a hand on his arm.

Diego smiled thinly. "I'm fine. It was terribly hot in there, that's all." He started to reach for his cravat, but stopped himself from actually clawing it off. Felipe could tell he wanted to.

Felipe sat down and considered Diego, looking for some sign of illness. Diego sighed and leaned forward. "I am fine. I admit, I could very nearly _weep_ with relief – for the last week I couldn't help imagining that man's blood on my hands…but now it's over."

"Do you want to go home?" Felipe asked.

Diego smiled. "We only have a couple of hours before the wedding. How could I go home?"

It was Don Emilio and Senorita Amanda who were getting married. Felipe made a face.

Diego laughed a little. "But think of the party afterward! Think of all that food! I don't doubt Don Emilio will raise the bar for all wedding celebrations in the future. How could I deprive you by going home?"

People were trickling out of the tavern at last. Many stopped to congratulate Diego as they passed. Diego leaned back in the chair and nodded politely, until Victoria appeared and planted herself in front of him.

"Don Diego, if we could have a word….?" she said, very formally.

Very formally, Diego answered, "Certainly. I am at your service…?"

She frowned slightly. "Not out here, Diego."

He averted his eyes. "It might be better if we - "

"It's business, Diego. I've decided to advertise in the newspaper. I assume that is permitted."

Diego's eyes narrowed, but after a moment he rose and led the way to the newspaper office. Puzzled by the entire exchange, Felipe followed. Why would Victoria need to advertise? She had the only tavern in town. And since when had Diego refused to see her? Or, in fact, refused her anything?

On the other hand, Diego had not been to the tavern very often these last few weeks. And Victoria had not come out to the house in….when was the last time?

When Victoria tried to shut the door behind them, Diego stopped her. For a moment Victoria scowled. Then she said, "Never mind that. This is important."

"Yes, your advertisement - ?"

She snorted. "Have you spoken with Zorro?"

For a moment he looked at her blankly, then he said, "About today, you mean?"

"Of _course_ about today!"

He paused. "What do you want me to say, Victoria? I would never have encouraged it. If either of you had asked me before planning it all out, I would have stopped you. Thank God it didn't come to that, I don't know….."

"It didn't come to that because of _you_," she said. "You were brilliant." There was no particular admiration in her voice. She only seemed to be recounting a flat fact.

Diego sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms.

"But if we had had to take to the streets…how could we allow that innocent man to be framed for bank robbery? How _could_ we?"

Diego nodded. "I do understand. But don't ask me to approve of you taking part in something so dangerous."

"Hmmm." She planted herself in front of him and said very softly, "Tell me the truth, Diego. Was the clerk in it alone? Or was the alcalde behind it all?"

"I have no idea," Diego said immediately.

Victoria ignored that. "You should have heard him this morning, all outraged at the crime, wondering where Seva had hidden the money! 'He certainly didn't spend it. Could he have buried it somewhere? Could he have slipped it to an accomplice to take out of town?' Well? Luis Ramone knows exactly where it is, doesn't he?"

Diego sighed. "Probably. But, Victoria, I have no proof, and without proof, there is nothing I can do. I was lucky to get Vargas acquitted. I am sorry, Victoria. I'm…sorry."

She nodded slowly.

"I don't want you talking about this. I'm serious. If Ramone feels himself in danger, he will defend himself. I was lucky this time - "

"Yes, I know. No, I won't say anything…." She said soberly. "He's getting worse, isn't he? This wasn't like public whippings and absurd taxes. He was going to let that man hang!"

Diego leaned forward. He spoke so softly that Felipe could hardly hear him. "He is very dangerous. It would be best if you kept your head down and stayed out of his way – yes, I know. The idea of submitting to that cruel, stupid, little man is intolerable. But Victoria, surely you can see that just drawing attention to injustice won't solve the problem. Not anymore. We are trying - " he stopped and passed a hand over his eyes. "Please. Try to be patient. We must limit the damage he does long enough to … until we can… Victoria, please."

She nodded stiffly. "All right, Diego."

"I'm sorry."

She softened slightly. "Oh, Diego. What would we have done without you? When I think what almost happened….But it is all right, now, isn't it? For the moment? And…well, perhaps Zorro will think of something."

Diego blinked, drawing back slightly. "Zorro."

"You've done your part already. And he's dangerous, you said so. You and I are too easy to…locate. You have a family, Diego. And he already feels threatened enough by you to…to…."

"To do something extreme and horrible?" Diego sighed. "No. All right, I promise you. I'll leave Ramone to Zorro from now on. And if I should, somehow, stumble on a solution to our problems, he'll get no warning."

Felipe had to turn his head and grit his teeth together. It was horrible and scary, but it was funny, too. Diego did most of Zorro's plotting. As persuasive as Victoria had been, Diego still had not escaped _any_ of the responsibility.

Victoria stepped back. "What is the largest advertisement you have?"

"Four inches, but that is rather expensive. Six pesos…."

She took the money out and laid it onto the table. "We have been here so long because you have talked me into something extravagant." She smiled. "Are you staying for the wedding."

"Oh, yes. I was telling Felipe it would likely set the standard for fiestas for years to come."

"I don't have an escort."

Felipe gasped. When Senorita Amanda had been staying with them, he had had many occasions to observe her with her suitors. She had always hinted so _slyly_ for what she wanted, coy and indirect – if terribly greedy. She'd always gotten what she wanted, but she had been so delicate about it.

What Victoria had said was clumsy and blunt and very nearly an open demand. Was she bad at flirting, or – might she just not care how it was supposed to be done?

For a moment Diego's eyes darkened. He seemed almost angry. Felipe had never seen him angry with Victoria for anything. She looked at him sadly and said, "Why can't we celebrate this? Today could have been so horrible, and here we are, and…oh, _please_, Diego. There is no reason not to."

"We'd regret it later, that is reason enough," he whispered, "It is already so difficult…."

"I promise. I won't regret anything."

The silence seemed to stretch out for a long time. Then Diego gently lifted her hand. "Senorita Escalante, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the fiesta this afternoon?"

"Why thank you, Don Diego. That would be very nice. I'll see you later, then."

Felipe waited until she was gone and shut the door. "What was _that_ about?"

Diego shrugged. "That? Nothing. She just shouldn't be wasting her time with an old friend, that's all. She's old enough to be thinking about a husband."

Felipe thought that Victoria _was_ thinking about a husband, and a little too obviously. He also thought that Diego was being very stupid, but there was no talking to him about this sort of thing. He was convinced he couldn't marry her –

Oh. Apparently he and Victoria had talked about it. Felipe took a deep breath. "Maybe your father needs something." He hurried out the door, wondering how he would spend the next two hours. Maybe Don Alejandro _would_ have an errand to send him on.

**Gilberto**

There hadn't been a chance, that morning, to spend much time with Diego discussing how angry with him Father might be. Diego, scandalized by Gilberto's quick sketch of the the plans Victoria and Zorro had made, was too busy fuming himself to say anything more than, "Stay out of his way and talk to me before you talk to him."

He gave Diego an hour or so to digest his victory in court before going to the Guardian office to pin him down for details. Diego, once the heat of the moment had passed, always returned to 'reasonable' very quickly. Gilberto found him not only calm, but conciliatory. It turned out that he had told Father that Gilberto – Gilberto himself, not Zorro – had liberated the account books of the bank.

"Mother of God, _why_, Diego?"

"He was so disappointed, 'Berto. I just couldn't stand it."

"So…what? You confessed to larceny on my behalf?"

"As though he would see it that way! You know he'll approve."

"Yes, because I want to fool him into approving of me with contrived heroics!"

Diego blinked at him. "Contrived? The heroics are completely genuine. All of them."

"In a costume," Gilberto hissed. "Playing a game - "

"Are you even listening to yourself? A game? If you want to call it that, then the stakes are innocent lives and justice and the safety of your family - "

"_Shut up_, Diego."

He paused, looking at Gilberto so hard that his eyes seemed bore straight through his skin. "Is it getting to you?"

"No. Of course not," Gilberto denied.

"It's been almost two years."

"No. I'm fine."

Diego stepped close enough that Gilberto had to look up.

"I lie to him," Gilberto found himself whispering. "Every day, I lie to him, and he is trying so hard, he has been so much more patient than any other Father has ever been, forgiven so much -"

"I won't stop you from telling him," Diego whispered.

"He is safer this way." Gilberto closed his eyes. "He would stop me."

Diego said sadly, "He might."

"It doesn't matter, all this thinking. I know what I have to do."

"I'm sorry I can't help more," Diego said.

"Help _more_? You have already saved me once this week! I did his dirty work for him - "

Diego smiled faintly. "Your efficiency greatly inconvenienced him. Forcing this trial was as much a problem for him as for us. More, perhaps, in the long term."

"If _you_ hadn't realized - "

"Enough. Enough."

Gilberto surrendered. If Diego – who overthought everything, who worried about everything – saw nothing to stew over, then it was safe to pause, for a moment at least.

Diego put an arm around his shoulder and took him to the tavern for a glass of wine and some fresh bread.

Everyone filed to the church for the wedding not long after. The mass passed by in a blur. Gilberto couldn't help thinking of Luis Ramone, sitting across the aisle.

Afterward, though, he tried to put it out of his mind for a while. The wedding festivities were huge and extravagant. Don Emilio had hired a dozen musicians. Streamers were everywhere. Four long tables had been set up in the square, and they were groaning with tamales, seafood stew, rice with chicken, roast venison, honey cakes, apple tarts…too much food to even keep track of.

No doubt Father would be taking note of everything with an eye to how much ostentation he would have to show when Gilberto got married. The thought made him wince, but really, Father never mentioned it. He wasn't hurrying Gilberto along….

Diego, at least, was enjoying himself. He was dancing with Victoria. For every song they danced, they spent two sitting on the tavern porch or in front of the newspaper office, resting.

"Do you think he's overexerting himself?" Father asked softly, coming up beside him.

At that moment, Diego and Victoria were seated at a table, leaning slightly towards one another, laughing. "He looks fine," Gilberto said. "Anyway, the priest has been after him to get a bit more exercise, and taking long, quick walks just in the rose garden is very dull. Apparently. I expect this will do him some good, especially after the last few days. He's been worrying…." Gilberto frowned. "For a while he was fencing with me fairly regularly, but…." He shrugged. "Not lately."

"Is it still bothering him? His loss to that Englishman?"

"He didn't lose," Gilberto corrected. "Diego is better than Thackery. He is better than Zorro."

"Zorro said something like that at the time…."

Silently cursing himself for saying just a little too much, Gilberto kept his shoulders down and his face relaxed. "Then he must have been in town when Diego fought." He shook his head. "I only paid attention to Diego. I have no idea who else was there."

Father glanced at him sharply. "No speculation on whom Zorro might be."

"Ah, no, that's not information I'd want to have."

On the tavern porch, Diego and Victoria were rising again.

Don Alejandro sighed.

"He's fine, Father. _Yesterday_, I was worried, when he was so…driven."

"Terrified."

"Yes, that. He looks much better today." Gilberto glanced at the sky. It was beginning to grow dark. Pascal servants were going around the square lighting lanterns. And – yes. "Look, the mother of the groom. Someone should ask her to dance."

"She's still in mourning," Father protested.

"It doesn't look like it. Her son's wedding, _someone_ should ask the senora to dance. And I am the wrong generation."

But Gilberto made sure he did dance, and speak to many people, and make his presence felt. He withdrew when Father collected Diego and complained that he was tired and wanted to go home. It was, by then, Diego who was tired. It was impossible to judge his pallor by the lantern light, but coming away from the ring of dancers that last time he had stumbled and Victoria was starting to give him uncertain glances.

Gilberto didn't go home with them, but he sat to the side and made himself uninteresting. He'd gone to enough parties while at school to have the trick of being invisible; it was no harder than being fascinating. He waited, watching Ramone, until it was definitely too late for him to head to his home outside of town. Then he slipped off to retrieve the set of black clothing he had hidden in the Guardian office (he couldn't use the old mill since it was currently operating. Unfortunately. Having Zorro's things at the newspaper exposed Diego more than Gilberto liked.)

It wasn't a long wait. No doubt the alcalde didn't exactly feel like celebrating. He had surely withdrawn from the fiesta as soon as it was polite. It wasn't as though he had any friends; the goodwill and warmth everyone else enjoyed would surely have bypassed him.

There was no pity in that observation. Zorro was waiting in the shadows when Ramone entered his quarters. He held his breath and rested solidly on the soles of his boots while Ramone removed his decorative sword and jacket and sat down to remove his boots. Zorro glided forward and rested the tip of the Sir Edmund's sabre lightly between Ramone's shoulder blades.

Ramone froze. "Zorro, I assume."

"Very good. Your foresight impresses me. Too bad you didn't exercise it sooner."

"Yes, I would have brought in a couple of guards to kill you."

"That, of course, but I was thinking of your little game with the bank books, Alcalde."

"What are you talking about?" he protested earnestly. "I have been connected to no crime."

"No," Zorro agreed, managing to keep his tone light. "De le Vega wasn't quite smart enough to put the pieces together. But we know better, you and I, Luis. Seva was your pawn, and you killed him when he couldn't keep the secret anymore."

"Don't be silly - "

His temper went all at once. He seized Ramone by the hair and swept him backwards, hard, sliding him off the bed and onto the floor. He had enough presence of mind to get the sword out of the way so Ramone wasn't impaled, but he didn't think to worry about the noise until Ramone smashed into the floor and wardrobe with a terrible crash.

That might well bring the lancers, and Zorro didn't have Toronado in town.

Swiftly, he crouched down and seized Ramone by his cravat drawing him up just enough to be uncomfortable. "I didn't enjoy being your pawn in this. _I_ handed Vargas over to your men for justice."

"Yes," he gasped, "imagine my surprise." He tried to get his hands under him, but he was trapped against the wardrobe and Zorro had a knee in his gut and one hand at his throat.

"I am running out of patience, Luis. Give it up. Go away. Apply for a transfer. Retire."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. Zorro was in no mood to deal with lancers. He dropped Ramone with another thump, rose from the floor, and sprang out the window, up to the roof. He only needed to make it as far as the armory roof before the search started: in the dark, with the noise and glare of the party to confound them, the lancers would never find him.


	5. March 24, 1815

**March 24, 1815**

**Gilberto **

It was more than an hour before dawn. The birds outside were so loud they might be having a family quarrel. Father, already dressed for travel, was repacking his saddlebags. Felipe, sleepy and mussed, hovered in the doorway.

"Maybe I shouldn't go." Father's hand hovered over his good shoes.

"Diego will be fine."

"If he isn't, I will never forgive myself."

"The journey will take almost three weeks. If you put off the trip too long you'll miss getting ready for the spring round up. Diego will be fine."

"There is no guarantee that it will do any good anyway - "

"It might. Father…it might. If the governor will listen…this could change everything. And even if it doesn't work, you have _said_ you would go. If you give up without even trying, people might conclude there is no point in fighting him."

Father scowled. "Ramone will _surely_ conclude that he's free to abuse the peons all he wishes." Slowly, he packed the shoes. "Diego…."

"Is fine. Has _been_ fine. Will still be here when you get back."

Father closed the saddlebags and allowed Felipe to step forward and take them. "I'm leaving you with the rancho," he said. "And all of my people. And your brother."

Gilberto tried not to stiffen, tried not to frown, managed not to look away. "Oh," he said. "Yes, Father."

"Take care of them. I'm sure you can manage to be sensible for three weeks, I'm not worried you'll do something foolish – but for pity's sake, keep your temper."

Uncertain how to take that, Gilberto answered, "Yes, Father?"

"Hmmph. Gilberto….I do have to do this. Conscript labor, on top of everything else - "

"I know, Father." He had declared – in public – that he was going to go complain – in person – to the governor. It might have not come to that if the twins had been in town yesterday morning when Luis Ramone had started rounding up conscript labor for unnecessary 'road improvements,' but Gilberto had been ten miles away working on his weather project and Diego had slept in to recover from 'newspaper day.' Victoria had been outraged. Don Alejandro had lost his temper. Within three minutes, Father had been committed to a journey to Monterrey.

Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps this direct appeal would _work_. Don Sebastian had volunteered to go with him, and Don Roberto Segovia had sent along a letter of support. Ramone's behavior over the last few years – and his embarrassing Zorro problem – might be scandalous enough to get the governor's attention.

It was a chance worth taking, anyway.

"I meant to move Big Red out to the north pasture today."

"I'll take care of it, Father."

"And lambing will start in earnest any day."

"If you don't mind, I'll start teaching Pepe how to help. He's been asking for months."

"That's fine…."

Felipe and Gilberto followed Father into the front room. Diego was waiting near the door. He was still in his dressing gown, but he had on shoes and he carried a lamp.

"I told you not to get up," Father admonished gently. "You've been having headaches."

Diego ignored the fussing. "How could I not see you off and wish you luck, Father? So many people's hopes go with you."

Father snorted. "Hmfp. Clever and charming. Well, that is one load off my mind, at least. Your brother will be looking after you, and you can't charm your way around _him_."

"Father," Diego protested, the picture of innocent offence, but Gilberto elbowed him to silence and vowed cheerfully, "He may still out smart me Father, but he won't sweet-talk me."

Don Alejandro looked at them and sighed.

"It is only three weeks," Diego said gently. But none of them liked to travel anymore, not since Gilberto had brought his ailing brother home.

Without another word, Father led the way out the door to where Tomas was waiting with two saddled horses. Father took the saddlebag from Felipe and blessed him, then he turned and swiftly hugged Gilberto and Diego…and then he and Tomas were two figures riding into the darkness.

As soon as it was seemly, Gilberto spun and hurried back into the house, Diego and Felipe close behind him as he passed through the hidden door in the library. "Where is he meeting Don Sebastian?"

"The trail head," Diego said.

Felipe set quickly about saddling Toronado. Diego caught Gilberto's arm. "Mendoza wouldn't meet my eyes yesterday," he said.

"Well, if I worked for Ramone I would be ashamed, too," Gilberto said cheerfully.

"If that's all it is," Diego said.

"If Mendoza has been ordered to stop Father and Don Sebastian, well _that_ isn't a serious problem. Mendoza won't do anything stupid…or vile. What worries me is what the alcalde might try himself. Or that man of his, Rojas. Neither of one of them has any honor."

"Even if it is Mendoza…Father _might_ not surrender. And Mendoza….He follows orders…."

"I will take care of it, Diego. But I'll be gone for several hours. Have Felipe bring Viking down. And ask Juan to move the red bull."

"I'll do it myself," Diego said.

"Not alone." He would prove Father right about that, at least. Diego would not persuade his way around the basic precautions his health required.

"Juan - "

"The new man, Felix. He's nearly as tall as you are." He waited until Diego had nodded agreement and then he turned to change clothes.

**Felipe**

It would be nice if he could make a batch of medicine for Diego a week in advance. Once mixed with water, though, it would go off in less than two days. Although none of the ingredients they used most commonly were imported (the most basic, in fact, was grown in their own back garden) it was still not acceptable to waste any. Felipe took care to always have at least a day's dosing available at all times…but at the same time he tried not to have more than half a day's extra.

It would all be very simple if Diego took the exact same amount at the same times every day. The realities of biology were not nearly so simple. Sometimes the action of the chemicals seemed unusually efficient and sometimes they ran their course before the expected time. Diego could not just look at his watch and take a small swallow and be done with it. No. He had to stop and think and check his pulse and make a _decision_.

He hardly ever made a mistake. When he did, too _little_ medicine was fairly easily remedied. Too much was more dangerous, and since it was not safe to use stimulants, the best option was for Diego – weak and pale and short of breath and pretending it was somehow no great inconvenience - to wait it out until his heart was no longer sedated.

Every morning Felipe checked the bottle from yesterday, considering how well it had worked and how much was left. Then he took a clean bottle and filled it with however much more medicine would be needed for about the next day and a half. By the time Diego was dressed the preparation was usually ready. Most days they didn't even talk about it.

This morning Felipe was extra careful because he was up early and he was worried, and either one of those might lead to mistakes.

Diego, dressed for ranch work, came over as he was finishing. "You don't have to come, this morning," he said. "It isn't like I'm branding strays. And you have a bushel of roses for the still. If they wait too long they'll start to go sour."

Felipe rolled his eyes.

Diego feigned a sigh. "It was worth a try."

Felipe pretended not to notice when Diego saddled Caesar instead of Esperanza. Caesar was a three year old gelding who liked to run but wasn't nearly fast enough at it to train up as a race horse. He was playful, but good mannered so he wouldn't try to toss Diego off on purpose. It was surely safe, though Diego's father and brother would disapprove if they knew.

Felipe supposed he disapproved, a bit, but it wasn't worth making a fuss over.

Felix, whom Felipe had not met, was indeed nearly as tall as Diego. He was nowhere as broad as the giant, Nestor, of course, but he was strong and cheerful. Even better, he was younger than Diego. He didn't have memories of him growing up. Unlike most of the vaqueros, he didn't look at Diego as though he was sorry for him and he didn't seem to be hiding his impatience because he had to humor the fragile son of the Patron.

Retrieving the bull was almost boring. Don Alejandro was fond of Red, but he was getting a little old and he'd never been particularly ornery to begin with. Oh, he was big and strong and healthy and tireless and he'd be quick to chase away another _bull_, but he didn't waste his energy protecting territory from horses or men or dogs.

He walked along calmly between Diego and Felix. They didn't even need to tug on the lead ropes. It took them three hours to reach the north pasture, but that was only because of Red's leisurely pace.

When they got back to the house, they had a quick lunch and then Diego retreated to his room to work on the newspaper. Felipe went down to the cave to get started on his own work. Zorro wasn't back yet, but Felipe mucked out the stall and refreshed the water in Toronado's bucket.

Then he set up the still, and while the water heated started plucking rose petals. The smell was heavenly, sweeter, even, then the meadow or the stream or the sea.

Don Alejandro liked the rose oil very much. He had asked to see the still, once, so Felipe had produced the kettle with the lid that pointed down and the little footed dish that went inside to catch the drops of oil. He had built it himself, and while wasn't pretty it worked very well. Don Alejandro had made a point of congratulating Diego for his teaching.

He was dumping the second basket of petals into the pot when he heard hoof beats in the passage. Felipe set the lid in place and turned around to take Toronado while Gilberto changed –

Toronado had no rider.

For a moment Felipe froze, too startled to breathe. Then he rushed out into the dim passage. It was empty. He triggered the door and peeked carefully into the ravine. No one.

Felipe went back to Torondo. He could find no injury on the stallion…and no sign of someone _else's_ blood. Felipe pressed his forehead against the warm shoulder. For a moment he couldn't think. The questions were too terrible to ask: Where was Zorro? Why would Toronado leave him?

What had Toronado escaped that Zorro had not?

If Zorro had been arrested, the soldiers would be coming here. Don Alejandro would be safe, miles away on the King's Road, but Diego was in the _house_. Could he get Diego to run? Was there any point? Could Diego survive as a fugitive, even if he was willing to run away?

Toronado turned his head and pushed at Felipe's shoulder. Hard. And again.

Felipe looked up and Toronado butted his chest, snorting at him, demanding. Numbly, Felipe started to pat his pocket. Toronado impatiently tossed his hand away and pushed at him.

Demanding.

Felipe hesitated a moment, unsure that this was the best thing to do. But there was nothing _else_ to do….And maybe everything could still be all right. Zorro might just be…left somewhere.

He rushed to Diego's desk and scribbled a note. For a moment he almost reconsidered. Diego would want to _know_, to do this himself. Diego would, in fact, be furious when he found out Felipe had left him behind. A drop of ink spattered the page. Diego was frail, but he was _so_ clever. Perhaps –

He was stronger than he had been. Perhaps -

Toronado stamped impatiently. Felipe signed his name and ran back to the stall. Toronado was turning toward the passage even before Felipe had settled into the saddle.

Felipe left the reins loose and crouched low, clinging to the saddle horn. He had forgotten to shorten the stirrups. He couldn't reach them even by stretching his toes. Gilberto was just so wretchedly tall….

Gilberto.

Oh, what a mess this was. Toronado was heading southeast, away from town, so it wasn't an arrest, at least. Not that that was any guarantee of good news. Felipe might be on his way to collect the body of Diego's brother.

Of Zorro, the great hero.

His stomach twisted at that, so he tried not to think about it. There was no reason to think he was dead. It might be anything. A broken leg. Another snake bite. It might even be nothing! He might just have had to hide for a while. It might be anything.

It might be anything.

How could Diego bear to bury his brother? Surely this would be too much.

Toronado turned from southeast to due south, heading into the rough ground that was always such a hassle during round-up season. The vaqueros hated it: Perdito Canyon, Diablo Canyon, The Spires, Stink Creek. In a rainy spring, it had quicksand, too, and rock slides. Felipe felt a brief moment of relief of the thought that at least Gilberto was not at the bottom of some quicksand pit.

As the ground grew rougher, Felipe held on tighter, but Toronado never missed a step or jarred him. Up and around and up some more. And some more. And then Toronado stopped at the edge of Perdito Canyon.

Felipe looked around and nudged him forward. Toronado turned his head and snorted at him.

Nervously, Felipe slid out of the saddle and looked around. There was no sign of Zorro. And no blood anywhere.

Toronado shoved an impatient nose in the small of his back, pushing him closer to the edge.

Nervously, Felipe stepped closer and peeked down. It wasn't a steep drop, but it was a long one. There were rocks and bushes and – was that _black_ between the branches? Felipe glanced at Toronado, who nudged him back toward the edge.

Felipe looked down at the sliver of what had to be black. Then he turned and squirmed on his belly over the edge. There was plenty to hold on to, but some of the bushes were thorny and a couple of time he had to edge his away around big, smooth boulders.

He didn't see Zorro until almost the end. A crumpled heap of black satin lay among the rocks on a broad shelf below. Felipe thought, perhaps, that he could see a little movement. Breathing, maybe.

Maybe.

Felipe realized he more frightened of what he would find at the bottom then he was of falling off the rocks. His hands were shaking. He wished he had fetched Diego.

Zorro was lying sort of on his side, canted slightly down by the position of the rocks. Felipe crouched beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He could feel movement from breathing, but that was all. There was no response to the touch.

Felipe loosened the strings that held the broken hat and pushed it out of the way. The mask underneath was stiff with dried blood. Felipe bit his lip. He unknotted the mask and slid it away. There was a cut and knot on the left side, just above Gilberto's ear.

For a long moment he couldn't think of a thing he'd ever read in the medical books. Then he stretched out a finger and _pushed_ very gently. Did anything move? Did it feel too squishy?

He had to push again and again, but no, no he didn't feel anything move. The brain pan might be cracked, but it wasn't _broken_ –

"Ow."

Felipe froze. Then he gasped and excitedly patted Gilberto's shoulder.

"Ow. What?" He tried to move, gasped with surprise and pain, and then stubbornly rolled the rest of the way onto his stomach and lifted his head. "Felipe?" He groaned and closed his eyes.

_Oh, no, don't go back to sleep_. Felipe patted his shoulder again.

Gilberto reached for his head – and then he convulsed once and gagged. Felipe had seen Diego come out of a faint sick to his stomach often enough to recognize this. He scooted out of the way and braced Gilberto's shoulders while he emptied his stomach.

There was no water. Felipe had brought nothing with him. He looked up the steep cliff face. Somewhere at the top Toronado waited with a canteen and a saddlebag full of emergency supplies. And Felipe had been stupid and left it all –

He stripped off his sash – a new, very nice blue one – and used it to wipe Gilberto's face.

Then, forcing himself to be ruthless, he began poking him, searching for other injuries. After a moment, Gilberto seemed to realize what he was doing. "Everything hurts," he said, squirming against the rocks, pushing himself up only to sag sideways against a bolder. "Nothing is broken but my head…I think." And then he was sick again.

Eventually, Felipe managed to get him moved into a small pocket of dirt and leaves cupped among the hard grey rocks. It was soft, and he could stretch his legs out, although he did have to lean against a lumpy rock behind him. Felipe tried to fold the cape into a sort of pillow.

"What happened?" Gilberto asked.

"You don't know?"

"No, obviously. I thought – I thought when I saw you, you'd beaten me." He looked around, squinting from the light even though the sun had already dropped behind the rim of the canyon. "This isn't _our_ ravine."

"You were out on Toronado," Felipe said.

"I was…where is he?"

Felipe pointed upward.

Gilberto closed his eyes.

Felipe tapped his knee. When Gilberto opened his eyes he said, "We have to go home."

"In a minute." He took a deep breath. "Father got away this morning. That was this morning?"

Felipe nodded.

"The last thing I remember is leading the lancers…."

"We have to go home! Diego will worry! The lancers might come looking! You need help!"

Squinting, Gilberto looked up at the irregular cliff face. "Don't be stupid. I can't climb that."

For a second the impatience stung, but Felipe reminded himself that Gilberto had to work at being polite even when he wasn't in great pain. He patted Gilberto's arm. "It's all right. It's all right. We will go down. This is Perdito Canyon. We can walk out from the bottom."

Gilberto stared at him for a long minute. "I don't know what you said," he said softly. "I'm seeing two of you now. Felipe…I think something is wrong…."

Yes, something was wrong. Gilberto had gotten himself dropped off a cliff, and Felipe had come to 'help' all alone with no supplies and now because they were stupid they were _stuck_ and Gilberto might very well die, because people did sometimes when they broke their heads this way and….

Felipe covered his mouth with his hands and took a deep breath. For a moment all he could think about was not crying.

And then he wondered why he had bothered, since being calm and sensible wasn't going to solve any of their problems. He could not carry Gilberto out of here. And he could not leave him alone. And he could not fix him. And he could not even say anything reassuring because Gilberto couldn't see properly.

He thought hard and he couldn't think of anything to do so he prayed very hard. And then he lifted Gilberto's hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"I'll rest for a bit, and then we'll try. All right? Just give me…a few minutes…."

Felipe glanced up at the sky, trying to think how much daylight there was left. They were too far down to judge shadows. It had been early afternoon when Toronado had come for him. How long had they ridden? Hours….two? three? more?

There was no way to get Gilberto home by nightfall. Perhaps, though, they could move somewhere more comfortable and sheltered…..

Felipe nudged Gilberto's shoulder.

"I don't see why you dislike him so much. He's honorable and intelligent. He's almost as good a swordsman as you."

Felipe blinked wondering what he had missed.

"Do you have a problem with cadets? I know you don't think much of how the military government is handling California, but it is honorable service. _Father_ was an officer, after all."

Oh. No. This was muttering delirium. Felipe had not realized it could get so loud. He crossed himself and tried to wake Gilberto again.

Gilberto just continued his one-sided conversation. "He's not as rich as we are. Not everyone can afford the best education. He'll make an excellent officer…..Then what _is_ the problem?"

Felipe gritted his teeth and shook him again.

"What is the problem, Felipe?"

Oh. "We should move," he signed slowly. He gently tugged on Gilberto's arm. Gilberto squirmed. Shifted to his knees. Froze.

Felipe tugged him.

Gilberto _signed_ quiet at him and squinted upwards. "Damn. Someone's coming."

Felipe tensed, straining to listen.

"Horses. A lot of them."

Felipe tugged on his arm. For a moment there was no affect, then Gilberto grabbed him hard enough to hurt. "Run," he whispered. "I won't make it. You have to get away."

Angry, Felipe twisted free. They didn't have time for delirium now. He grabbed the cape and the hat and scooted back up the hill, scrambling over the rocks without looking down. When he had a clear view of the top of the cliff, he laid the cape out over a rock and set the hat down beside it.

He could hear hoof beats now, and men talking. Lancers? Bounty hunters? Even if it was just a group of vaqueros…no, they couldn't afford to be found. He scrambled back down.

Gilberto had gotten as far as his knees, but he was vomiting again. Felipe looked around, trying to find some easy path, any direction, as long as it was _away_. He found a clean corner of the sash and wiped Gilberto's mouth, grabbed him by the upper arm, and shoved upwards.

Gilberto made a sound like a whimper. Stumbling, leaning against Felipe, he half-crawled over the rocks. Felipe didn't head for the edge of the shelf – the drop was straight down. Instead he led Gilberto to the side, where the shelf narrowed to a few feet and then to less than a foot.

The progress was slow, and Gilberto had to be kept pressed to the inner wall. They pushed their way through a small bush, leaving a trail a blind idiot could follow, but there was no help for that.

The path slanted downward. Gilberto lost his footing for a moment, but he clung to a tiny tree and Felipe and managed to right himself.

The sound of musket fire made Felipe jump. It was Gilberto's turn to steady him then, holding him still with both hands and leaning inward toward the rock face.

When the musket shots ended they were replaced with yelling and the sound of clatter of falling rocks.

Gilberto sagged. "Lancers. They are climbing down. Please, Felipe, please. You can get away," he whispered. "You have to get to Diego and…."

Felipe shook him. "No! How can I go to Diego and tell him I left you? How?"

"We don't have time to argue!" Gilberto whispered.

That was true. Felipe grabbed him and dragged him along the path. Their progress was slow - and surely not quiet enough - but it would take Zorro's pursuers time to climb down, and while they were climbing they couldn't listen very closely….

With a soft groan, Gilberto sank to his knees. Felipe squirmed under his arm, but he couldn't get him up again. Felipe threw all his strength into it, but Gilberto only slid sideways, toward the edge. Barely, Felipe succeeded in shoving him the other way and he landed in a heap.

Felipe crouched beside him. Gilberto wasn't unconscious. His eyes were open, but they weren't focused. "Please," Felipe signed.

"Tell me what to do to make it better," Gilberto whispered. "You have something in mind. I know you-you _always_ have something in mind. If anyone can figure out how _everyone_ can survive the next week, it is you. So tell me what to do, little brother. I need you. I need you."

Felipe shushed him. Gilberto tried to push him away. Felipe hissed in his ear and then pulled him close against his shoulder. Gilberto stilled.

Felipe listened to men's voices – exclaiming in dismay, calling out to each other, complaining – as he cowered with Gilberto too close to their last hiding place. He could imagine their consternation at finding the empty cape spread across the rocks. They would search.

It occurred to Felipe that if he started climbing down and made a bit of noise he might lead them away. He would be a better climber than grown men with all that bulky clothing on. He looked down, but there was a lot of loose dirt right below. Not much to hold on to….

The voices (far too close) suddenly shifted tone and got much louder. Felipe heard surprise and anger, but so many were talking at once that he couldn't separate the words. There was some kind of commotion, too, up on the top of the cliff. Gilberto stirred in his arms and looked up, squinting. His hand closed around Felipe's shoulder and squeezed tightly.

The sound of rocks falling again. They really didn't climb very well. Or quickly. It was a long time before Gilberto let Felipe go and sat back, taking deep breaths.

"What happened?" Felipe signed.

"Their horses. Their horses are gone….I have to think…maybe Toronado…."

Oh. Felipe closed his eyes. He found he was shaking now. He hadn't been before.

"We have to keep moving," Gilberto whispered. "I don't think they'll come back, they'll have a long walk home…but we should keep moving."

Oh. Yes. And they should get to firmer ground before it got dark. The ledge was far too narrow here. Felipe stood up, set his feet, and pulled Gilberto up. Gilberto, stumbling and reaching to steady himself with his free hand, began to whisper. It was definitely Russian. Felipe thought it might be poetry. He kept his eyes on the ground and plodded forward. There wasn't much light left. He would have to find a place to stop soon….

'Soon' came when they crawled over a boulder and found that a ravine intersected the larger canyon. There had been a landslide years before, washing out the sides and leaving a steep slope covered with small rocks and baby bushes and grass. Felipe sighed and tugged Gilberto forward.

It was not so steep that there was danger of falling off. There might be a few comfortable spots to sit. And if they went on, Felipe would have to pick a direction: forward? Or down? And neither looked like a scramble that Gilberto could manage right now.

Felipe settled Gilberto in the lee of one of the larger rocks and began to clear smaller rocks so there would be a place to sit and stretch out. His back ached from carrying so much of Gilberto's weight and crouching and crawling. His knees and hands were sore, too.

He could not stop to rest.

There were fallen branches here and there. Not many, but enough to have a small fire. If Felipe had had anything to start a fire with. If they could have risked a fire, here where hardly even cattle came, and vaqueros only during the round up. If a fire would have solved their problems, which were no water, no food, no way to….

Gilberto seized his wrist. "Go now," he whispered. "You've done all you can….I'll be all right. You can come back tomorrow…." Gilberto's grip was strong, but his eyes wouldn't focus on Felipe's face. "Bring horses. Diego. There is no reason to - "

"No."

Gilberto slumped backwards and snorted disgusted. "Stubborn. Stupid. _Brat_. Diego thinks you have a little sense, but you'll stay here like an idiot….doing nothing…letting him worry all night. You always were a stupid little pest - "

Felipe's throat clamped down and squeezed out a terrible, quivering sound. "No! Don't die!" but his hands were too unsteady to be comprehensible, even if Gilberto could focus on them. "I won't let you send me away so you can die without me watching!"

Gilberto fumbled and caught Felipe's hands. "Stop. Stop. Felipe. I promise you. I am not…I am not going to die. Please. Be reasonable."

For just a moment Felipe imagined explaining to Diego how he had been talked into abandoning Gilberto to die alone on a rocky slope in the cold. He imagined Gilberto dying alone on a rocky slope in the cold. He shook his head.

"Go."

"Tomorrow we will climb down to the bottom. There is water. Fish. Roots. Cress. I will leave you then and go get Diego. That will be better. It is getting dark now anyway."

Probably Gilberto didn't understand any of that. "Go," he begged.

"Make me." But Gilberto's eyes were already shut. His breathing was shallow. He might be asleep.

The shadows were deepening and it was already chilly. Well, soon it would be too dark and cold to talk anyway. Felipe settled in beside Gilberto's hip and wished they still had the cape. It would have been a little warm, at least.

**Diego**

A smell like burnt food greeted Diego when he entered the cave. Diego winced. Felipe had only spoiled the rose oil once before –

There was no sign of Felipe. The lamp was turned up, but the brazier had burned down and the still was a little haze of sour smoke. Diego frowned. Gilberto's clothing was still hanging on the hat rack. He turned slowly, looking –

_Diego—_

_Toronado came back alone. I don't know what happened. You'll have to make some excuse for us. If we aren't back by tomorrow, you'll have to come looking. I'm sorry. _

Very slowly, Diego lifted the note and crumbled it into a ball. Then he unfolded it and crumpled it again.

Then he went to the corral. He wasn't sure what he should do. He should have thought of this particular disaster…but he hadn't. Whatever he did, Gilberto's and Felipe's absence had to be concealed, that much was clear.

Pepe was hanging around the corral. Diego sent him on an errand. He saddled Sunshine, and led him around and down to the ravine to wait with Viking. Sunshine was too small for Diego to ride, and the short walk around the house and down into the hollow left him panting.

Getting his breath gave him a chance to think. The reasonable thing to do was what Felipe had suggested: say they were out working, that Gilberto was being zealous about showing he could take care of the rancho in his father's absence, and then go out tomorrow to find them. It was getting late. Diego did not have a great deal of stamina. And it would look odd if Diego decided to play the vaquero….

And it was unthinkable. Diego could not quietly eat supper and practice the piano and go to bed and pretend that Gilberto and Felipe weren't missing and in danger.

He went back into the house through the cave. He told Maria that he was joining Felipe and Gilberto up at Yellowrock. He packed tortillas and cheese and some apples. He got a bedroll and his musket. He left a note for Juan.

He was cheerful and casual until, riding Caesar, he reached the ravine again. There, certain he was unobserved, he dropped his peaceful façade and got to work. The ravine was full of horse tracks. Really, they should spread some leaves. Or bring some sheep down for a few days, to confuse the trail….

He found fresh tracks of Toronado going in and out again, on a very steep path at the east end of the ravine. Gilberto didn't usually use it. Esperanza would have balked at it, but Caesar was willing.

At the top the ground was rocky. It took a few minutes to find the trail again. As soon as he had a direction, Diego remounted and urged Caesar forward. There were only a couple of hours of daylight left. He'd have to hurry if he hoped to find them before it got too dark to see tracks.

Caesar was no champion, but he was quick and sturdy and he kept trying to speed up. It had been days since the last rain, though, and the meadows were speckled with cattle tracks….and the trails with tracks left by the vaqueros…and the rocky ground was hardly any use at all. Diego kept having to stop and search for traces, and the lower the sun got the more the details began to blur together. Was that broken branch fresh? Was that patch of grass crushed…or only shaded by a small rock?

The sunset was magnificent; all gold and pink and purple. Diego hated it from the core of his soul, but of course his feelings could not hold off the coming night one moment. He had been riding in a slowly widening circle for ten minutes before he finally admitted to himself that he had lost them. He could continue on in the direction he had been taking and just hope they hadn't turned aside, or he could camp for the night. Both ideas were wrenching.

Desperate for one last idea, he whistled for Toronado and strained his ears, listening for an answering neigh or the sound of hoofs.

There was nothing, just some evening frogs waking up.

Trying not to think, he unsaddled and ground hitched Caesar. He gathered some wood and made a small fire. He did it all singing; it would be unforgivable if Felipe or Gilberto were to pass close by and not know he was near. He propped the saddle against a tree, so he would have something to lean on while he slept.

How he would sleep he didn't know.

Earlier, while he'd been tracking them, there hadn't been much extra attention to think. Now, alone in the dark with only the peeping frogs and Caesar for company, it was impossible to drag his mind away from the list of possible disasters that was growing so quickly.

Zorro had gone out this morning to make sure Father and Don Sebastian got away safely. If that had gone wrong…surely they would have heard. If Father had been arrested or hurt, someone would have come out to the house….

But something had gone wrong afterward. Diego paced back and forth in front of his fire, imagining Gilberto bitten by another snake or…

Or shot and bleeding to death somewhere. Alone.

Except possibly _not_ alone, because Toronado had come home and gone out again with Felipe. Intelligent, kind, reasonable Felipe who had decided to risk both Gilberto's life and his own because Diego was too fragile to be relied upon and too precious to risk.

When Diego did find the boy he was going to kill him.

The rage that accompanied that thought was so strong it made him see spots. He sat down and put his head between his knees, forcing in deep breaths and trying to remember that Felipe was – at the most – barely sixteen and doing his very best to do the right thing.

Idiot. The only purpose God had given Diego was taking care of _them_. What did it matter what happened to Diego or how soon or late he died, if he failed to give them whatever help they needed?

_Please, please be all right. _He would forgive Felipe anything, if only he were all right. He would give anything, _anything_, to find them both alive and safe.

After a long time he rose stiffly, forced himself to eat an apple, and settled back against the saddle with the bedroll rapped around him. The stars had come out, though he could see few of them through the branches above. It was going to be a cool night. Dry at least, but cold. He hoped they had some shelter.

_I hope they managed – somehow – to make it home._ But that was a lie. He knew it.

**Jamie **

It was almost midnight when the patrol finally reached town. Jamie was tired and footsore and starving and sick of hearing the men whine and complain about how tired and footsore and hungry they were.

The alcalde, naturally, was waiting. He must have been watching at the window, because he rushed out of his office before the patrol even reached the cuertel gate. "Where have you been? Your horses returned hours ago!"

"Well, that is because Zorro's horse frightened _our_ horses away."

"His horse stranded an entire patrol!"

Jamie winced. "Well, apparently…it is a very smart horse…."

For a moment the alcalde's mouth quirked in contempt, but then his eyes widened with alarm. "But – it _was_ just the horse? Zorro wasn't on it?"

"Oh, yes, Alcalde," Mendoza said, relieved that at least they were not to be punished for failing their assignment. "I can assure, he is dead…."

"Then where is the body?" he snapped. "I notice that none of you seems to be carrying it!"

"Well…Alcalde…we could not bring the body back…." He had rehearsed this over and over during the long hike home, but now, hearing the words out loud he nearly cringed at how weak they were.

"But – Your orders were to retrieve that body! Don't you understand? I need the body of Zorro as proof that he is really dead. I need that body, now where is it?" He was shouting by the end of that. Jamie always dreaded what the alcalde did when he was shouting.

"I'm afraid the –the coyotes took it away," which was hard to say aloud when he was trying so hard not to picture it. "But – but we do have these," he motioned Gomez forward. "The hat…and the cape…this is all that was left….."

The alcalde took the ruined clothing eagerly. "There's blood on it," he said happily.

Jamie swallowed. "It isn't as though he would just walk off and leave his hat. He must be dead and…" and torn to pieces and eaten by the wild animals.

But the alcalde only tucked the shredded cloth under his arm and patted Jamie on the shoulder. "Well done, Sergeant. Congratulations. You realize that you and your men are entitled to the reward."

"The reward," Jamie had somehow forgotten about that. The thought made him brighten a little. His share as the leader would be the largest. Seven or eight hundred pesos, he would have to stop and do the math, but either way it was enough to resign the colonial army and try his hand at something else….

"Well, the reward minus the tariff," the Alcalde said, smiling.

Oh. "There is a tax on rewards?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, no. There is a tax on windfalls while serving in the military. And since this reward is a windfall and since you are serving in the military, I am afraid you are subject to this particular tax."

Oh. "And…how much is the tax?"

"Well, it is scalable, according to the size of the windfall. In this case, the reward is very high so the tax will probably exceed ninety percent…or thereabouts...possibly more…."

"Oh. Of course…."

**Diego**

He only meant to rest and conserve his strength, but he must have slept because suddenly the moon was high and Toronado's nose was under his chin, the warm breath startling against the chill air.

There was no rider. Diego nearly wept with relief anyway as he hugged the broad head to him. "Where are they, boy?" he whispered. "Where are they?"

Toronado stamped impatiently as Diego swiftly repacked his supplies, saddled Caesar, and tied him behind. In a moment Diego was mounting the great black –

The wave of dizziness that hit as he landed in the saddle told him that he had not eaten enough or rested enough….and that his last dose might have been too small. Diego clung to the saddle horn until the spinning passed, and then took a sip from the bottle in his jacket pocket.

By then Toronado was already moving. Diego let him have his head. They went a long way. In the dark, Diego was not quite sure where they were, except that they were mostly following narrow deer paths….and that they were traveling downward.

~tbc


	6. March 25, 1815

**March 25, 1815**

**Diego**

After a rather easy ride down, Toronado swung to the north and began to work his way upward. The trail here was narrower…..and steeper….and as the sky began to lighten, Diego could see that there was a steep drop.

Although they were moving slowly and carefully, the lighter it got the more Caesar balked. He didn't like the drop or the poor footing. He pulled back on the lead rope and rolled his eyes. Afraid he would start to resist in earnest, Diego dismounted took him by the bridle. He removed his jacket and wrapped it over the gelding's eyes. Neither Toronado nor Caesar was thrilled by this arrangement, but it kept them moving forward.

Before they had gone very much further the trail narrowed and began to rise so sharply that even Toronado could not manage it. Still, he pawed the ground impatiently and snorted. Diego considered for a moment, and then hitched both horses to a sapling and studied the hill in front of him.

There was a sheer face of eroded rocks just in front of him, but only for ten feet or so. After that…he couldn't tell very much about the terrain. It was screened by a wall of scrub and tough grass that offered plenty of handholds but would be very difficult to push through.

Impatiently, Toronado nudged him from behind. Hard.

With no other options, Diego climbed. He set each foot carefully before moving, but he made it to the top without a dizzy spell. He dealt with the plants at the top by uprooting the smallest of them and crawling through the holes they left.

When he could finally see what was on the other side of the scrub, he breathed a sigh of relief. The grade was almost gentle here, and the boulders were not so tall he would actually have to climb them like an ant.

Diego glanced down to where Toronado waited so impatiently. For a moment he hesitated, more afraid then he could even describe. Then he took a deep breath and shouted, "Felipe?"

Oh the heels of the tiny, flat echo, there was a sudden clatter and scramble. A loose rock bounced down the hillside, tumbling until it fetched up against a boulder with a thump. And then Felipe's head and shoulders popped up. He stared for a moment, dark eyes looking so huge in his pale face … and then he reversed himself and began to slither down the rocks feet first.

Felipe's progress down the hill was half-run and half-slide, powered as much by the pull of gravity as the push of his feet. Worried, Diego planted himself in the boy's path, crouched down, and wrapped one hand around a sad-looking sapling. He snatched Felipe close to him even as the boy braked his descent by throwing himself to the ground at Diego's feet.

The relief was as vivid as an actual dizzy spell. Diego – on his knees, both arms wrapped around Felipe's shoulders – froze for a long moment.

Felipe lifted his face and looked solemnly at Diego.

"Are you all right?" Diego asked.

Felipe swallowed hard. He nodded. Diego judged that it was mostly the truth.

"Gilberto?"

Felipe pulled back enough to lift his hands in answer. "Hurt." He pointed up the hill.

Diego took a deep breath. "Take me," he said.

Felipe was a swift, strong climber and the hill above, while not quite a 'cliff' at this point, was steep and rocky. Diego, unused to so much exertion, was soon panting. His only asset was his reach; while Felipe had to scramble for handholds or make little jumps from one good foothold to another, Diego…could move more…smoothly….at least until….

…at least until…he was pausing every few steps…to get a couple of breaths in….

…Diego pushed his hand into the stitch in his side and kept his eyes on the next step.

He fell once, but a small, wind-twisted tree was right beside him, so he didn't slide….Getting up would be hard though….

Felipe crouched beside him and squeezed his arm. He didn't ask if Diego was all right. That was sensible, because it didn't matter one way or the other, and Diego was far too busy breathing to answer.

As soon as he could, he pushed his weight against the little tree and shifted to his knees. Felipe squeezed his arm again and said, "Breathe. It's all right. I can see him. We're almost there."

Almost there? Diego clawed his way to his feet, clutching the tree until the wave of dizziness passed and then scrambling around the next thicket, grabbing the sharp little branches to aid the climb.

Gilberto was not quite upright, leaning against a boulder. His hair was matted with blood. His face was roundly bruised and the single glove he had on was mostly shredded.

He reached for Diego and it was all they could do not to fall together. Diego managed to get them down slowly, distantly aware that Gilberto seemed to be cursing at him in French, which was not his usual choice.

The matted blood concealed a deep cut and a knot the size of a hen's egg. Gilberto hissed and tried to pull away when Diego prodded it.

"Where are you hurt?" He had not meant to speak so softly, but he was still out of breath and a bit overwhelmed with relief at finding them both alive. All the fears he would not admit to the night before were fully articulated now, all the ways Gilberto could have been killed, or even only maimed….

"Stop it. It's only my head. Let me alone."

"You are bruised everywhere," Diego protested.

"You'd think you'd never seen one before. Ouch! Don't touch that."

"I've had to rescue you. Not being prodded is a luxury reserved for people who don't fall into canyons."

He had expected Gilberto to quarrel with that, but he only turned his face away from the light, covered his eyes, and leaned into Diego's shoulder. Sighing, Diego put his arms around him.

"Father got away," Gilberto said after a moment. "I don't remember how I got _here_, but I do remember leading the patrol away."

"Good enough, then," Diego said. "We can manage….It will be all right."

"My head hurts."

"I know. I know, Old Man. It will hurt even more before we get you off this hill."

The trip down, though, was almost better than the trip up. They were not in a hurry, at least. They were careful. Diego and Felipe maneuvered Gilberto by his sword belt, a solid leather handle they could use to steady him as he shifted from safe point to safe point.

It was very slow going, though, and by the time they reached the horses they were all covered with scratches, mud, and leaf litter. Of course, they had been filthy before the descent, too. The new coating was scarcely noticeable.

Diego handed the canteen from Toronado to Felipe and brought the one from Caesar to Gilberto. He let Gilberto take a long drink, then took the water back, wet his handkerchief, and began to work on the terrible mat of blood that caked his ear and left trails on his neck. Gilberto, worryingly, didn't complain. He seemed a bit dazed, which might only be exhaustion from the climb…or might be a very bad sign.

Felipe found some sea biscuits in Toronado's saddlebag and pushed a chunk into Gilberto's hand.

He shook his head.

"He's right," Diego said. "You haven't eaten since yesterday. Suck on this for a while. I'll give you something better in an hour or so."

It took most of that hour to get down to the canyon floor, but there was plenty of fresh water there and a flat place to rest and reassure the horses. Diego finished the last of his medicine, sheared out the apples and cheese, and allowed himself ten minutes to sit and breathe. Then he said, "We have to change clothes."

Surprised, Felipe looked up. "You brought clothes?"

"Oh, no. Sorry. Not you. Gilberto and I have to exchange clothing."

That got Gilberto's attention. "No. Absolutely not."

"If we meet someone – anyone – Zorro has to be able to slip off and disappear with Toronado. You can't do that."

"No."

"We can't all be seen together."

"Who will come out here? No one will see. I won't let you do it."

"I'm not proposing I _fight_ anyone. You know I'm right. Or are you going to suggest we make poor Felipe do it?"

He stopped arguing after that.

Zorro's costume not really dirtier than Diego's riding clothes. Or, at least, not much. But still he winced. It stank a bit. And it was torn in several places. The mask, even rinsed out in the creek, was stained with blood. Diego would leave it tied it to the saddle horn for now.

When they had changed, Diego rode Toronado and Felipe led Caesar for Gilberto, who dozed in the saddle. It was well after noon before they were close to the house, but they didn't meet anyone along the way, and Diego was grateful for that. He called for a rest and caught Gilberto as he slid from the saddle. "You should have just let me poison him to begin with," he said to Diego. Felipe looked a bit scandalized at that, but Diego was too exhausted to explain that this was only a kind of complaint about Ramone.

"I'm going to ride back to the cave and exchange Toronado for your horses. Hmmm. And get out of this costume. I'll be back as soon as I can."

**Victoria**

It was lunch time before the despot came in to gloat. She had expected him sooner. The customers quieted as he entered. Except for a small smile, he pretended not to notice.

Pilar was headed over to the bar, but Victoria patted her arm and went to serve the alcalde herself. She wouldn't inflict him on someone else.

He smirked at her. "Your best wine. Something suitable to a celebration."

Forcing herself to smile calmly, she fetched a pitcher from under the counter. "Are you celebrating something, Alcalde?"

His eyes widened. "You haven't heard? Our valiant lancers have finally solved our little…bandit problem. Zorro is dead."

"Oh, that," she said distractedly.

Irked at getting no reaction, he pressed, "Isn't it wonderful news?"

"For you…it would be…if it were true…." She shrugged. "But all you have are wild rumors."

"I assure you, the rumors are true," he said, relaxing against the bar.

"They are? _All_ of them? He was torn apart by wild dogs, shot, _and_ tossed off the cliff? No one is going to believe all that."

She thought he would rise to that, but he just smiled more broadly. "Actually, he fell off the cliff…first."

Victoria's mouth went dry. He did not look like a man who was up to something. He looked like a man who was deeply, profoundly happy. "And the evidence? Rojas said all you have is some black clothing. If Zorro is dead, where is the body?" Actually, it had been Gomez who had been bragging in the taproom this morning, but Gomez was not such a bad man that she would expose him to the alcalde's temper. "How easy would it be for…anyone…to arrange the appearance of a terrible accident? Leave some torn clothing behind?" Not too hard, surely. This was just another trick.

The alcalde beamed with quiet joy. "I don't have torn clothing. I have torn clothing with _blood_ _all over it_." He leaned toward her. "But let's say you are right: this is all a trick and the bandit is still alive. Then where _is_ he?"

"We shall see, Alcalde. Would you like some lunch?"

She managed to keep her composure until she reached the kitchen.

**Diego**

When they rode into the side yard Old Juan came charging out of the barn. He was already three words into an indignant scolding when he caught sight of Gilberto's battered face. The reversal was immediate. He called for help, rushed forward to help Gilberto out of the saddle, sent a man to fetch the doctor and, at Diego's quiet request, the priest. Maria appeared then. She hurried around, setting the house staff to carrying water and gathering clean cloths.

Two of the men carried Gilberto into the house while Diego and Felipe trailing wearily behind….

It was Juan who helped Diego undress Gilberto and wipe the worst of the filth off. With a little warm water they got off the last of the blood, then they dressed him in a night shirt and tucked him into bed.

Gilberto was very pale, except where the dark bruises mottled the side of his face. And he was too quiet, had _been_ too quiet for hours. He should have complained during their ministrations….

Juan took Diego's arm and guided him back a couple of steps to sit in the chair by the window. "Diegito?" he said softly, "Are you all right?"

Diego nodded, his eyes still on Gilberto's face.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Oh. And this was important. A lie was hard to maintain, but rumors were reliable. It was important to get the story they wanted out and passed from person to person so they would not have to repeat it themselves. "We never made it to Yellow Rock. I…shortly after I met up with them…we left the trail to get a look at a maverick…she was staggering a little…hurt her hoof, I think." And Diego had seen a heifer that looked unsteady on her feet. He didn't know what happened to her. He couldn't turn aside from his search to investigate….

"Diego? What happened to your brother?"

"A snake startled Viking. Gilberto was thrown and Viking ran off….Felipe went after him. By the time he caught him and made it back…it was dark…I wasn't sure 'Berto could sit a horse."

"And you, Diego?"

Diego blinked. "Me? Oh. I'm all right…really. I haven't been ill…."

He nodded thoughtfully. "You must decide, Diego. Do we send for the Patron? We cannot wait if we hope to catch him -"

"No. No."

"I have known your father for a very long time. There is nothing more important to him, no reason that would keep him away….Diego, think."

"We couldn't catch him. And even if we did…what could he do? By the time he got here. No, Juan. Please."

"As you wish," Juan murmured, standing up. "Is there anything you would like me to do?"

"You've been in charge all day. I'd like to leave it with you a little longer. Look after…things."

"Of course." The old man glanced at the bed and sighed. "We'll all be praying for him."

Diego closed his eyes. "Thank you."

The doctor arrived not long after. He shooed Diego out.

Diego's body was stiff and sore. He moved like an old man – no, _Juan_ was an old man and he was sprier than this. The short trip to his room seemed to take a very long time.

A tub of warm water waited for him. His aching muscles longed for a hot bath, but that was forbidden. Hot water made his heart pound, although the effect was not nearly as dramatic as when he used cold water to quiet it.

He stripped. No one appeared to have noticed that this was the suit Gilberto had been wearing yesterday, a small blessing.

He washed in the warmish water.

He put on an old pair of paints and a dressing gown and returned to Gilberto's room.

Doctor Hernandez was just finishing wrapping the bandage. He said something softly to Gilberto and then led Diego back into the hall.

"How is he?"

A sigh. "There is commotion in the brain….He thinks he is Zorro."

Diego managed to contain his gasp of horror to a soft choking noise.

The doctor patted his arm. "A rather severe commotion, yes, but not all of the signs are bad. He thinks he is Zorro, but he says so quiet clearly. His speech is not at all slurred."

Diego nodded to show he understood.

"These next few days will be telling…If this is only commotion of the brain he will make a complete recovery. But it is impossible to tell if there is a more serious injury. He must be closely watched these next few days. If he won't wake, if he convulses, if he starts vomiting again, you must send for me at once. You must prepare yourself for the idea that extreme measures might be necessary. If it comes to that, there won't be time to dither about it."

"You're talking about trephining," Diego said. The thought made him cold all over.

"I hope it won't be necessary. All we can do for now is keep him quiet and wait."

Diego forced himself to nod.

"Now. Let's take a look at you, shall we?" He took Diego's arm – at the elbow, as though Diego were a very old man – and let him toward his own room.

"I wasn't injured."

"You slept rough, exerted yourself…and, Diego, it isn't good for you to be worried like this."

The doctor was looking at him sternly, but Diego did not point out that it wasn't as though he had _intended_ to misuse himself. He submitted to the examination without complaint. He ignored how much the doctor frowned when he compared the pulse at Diego's throat with the one at his wrist.

"Your lungs are clear, at least…."

"I've been doing very well lately."

The doctor took the little book where Diego kept track of his dosage and symptoms and flipped familiarly to the last page. "Is this up to date?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I would suggest adding a cup of hawthorn tea to the daily mix. Perhaps that will strengthen you a bit. Start with half a cup at first, to make sure there are no negative effects."

"All right," Diego said.

"I realize that Don Gilberto's illness comes at a very inconvenient time," he said carefully. "You will be tempted to step into his shoes, with your father gone…."

Diego shrugged, uncertain how to respond.

"Everything is particularly…difficult right now, I know," he continued heavily.

"Our foreman is excellent. I intend to rely on him."

"Diego…your father is an old and dear friend of mine. In his absence, I feel I should remind you that you boys mean more to him than the rancho….If it came down to it, he would rather see his domain in ruins than have you exhaust yourself into a decline. You must not abuse yourself in the name of 'duty.'"

Diego nodded. It was very difficult to take advice from old men who were convinced they understood your problems, but a great deal depended on his elders accepting that he was reasonable and cooperative. He kept his expression meek.

The doctor hesitated. "I won't scold you for not sending Felipe for help last night." He sounded as though he wished to, though, so the best option would be to nod meekly and not give him an excuse. Just then the connecting door to Felipe's little room hadn't burst open.

Felipe came in protesting, but the doctor didn't sign so his vehemence was mostly lost. Diego, watching them, found a lump rising in his throat. It was a moment before he could translate: "He wouldn't leave. A blow to the head, if it doesn't kill you right away…then saving a few hours getting help has no impact on the outcome. It isn't as though there is any treatment but rest. But if…if Gilberto was going to die…he would not leave me to face it alone." As grateful as he was to Felipe for handing him this lie, he felt a wave of terrible sadness, because the truth was worse. Felipe had spent the night because he wouldn't abandon Gilberto to suffer or - even die - alone. It was a painful thought.

The doctor sighed. "Were you injured in all this?" he asked Felipe.

Belatedly, Felipe remembered his manners, stepped back, and shook his head meekly.

The doctor nodded and turned to Diego. "To bed then. You need to rest."

Felipe tapped his arm and shook his head. "Diego will not sleep if he cannot see him."

"He said - "

"No, I can guess. You'll worry if you are separated?"

So, after only a little negotiation, Diego said good-bye to the doctor and joined Felipe in Gilberto's room. Maria was bustling out, leaving behind a pot of the strengthening tea and a plate of toast. "There will be some flan later," she whispered to Diego as she passed him.

Felipe handed Diego a cup of the tea and pointed to the chair. An order to sit, and Diego sat. He held the warm cup in his hands and let himself – at last – pause to think.

Or rather, he _tried_ to think. A thousand worries and hopes and regrets seemed to swarm up in place of actual, useful thoughts.

Felipe poured another cup of the tea and went to the bed. Gilberto was propped against the pillows. His eyes were shut, but he was breathing too shallowly to be asleep. Felipe touched his arm and Gilberto squinted at him and growled, "Are you still here? Stupid little pest, can't you even follow orders?"

Diego nearly dropped his cup. He didn't know what would be worse: that Gilberto was so addled that he had forgotten the last two years with Felipe, or that he might be in his right mind and actually mean it.

Felipe rolled his eyes impatiently and pinched Gilberto on the shoulder until he opened his eyes all the way. Felipe flicked him with an imperious fingernail and pointed around the room. "What?" Gilberto gasped leaning forward. "Are we – we're home?"

Felipe nodded.

He sank back against the pillows and sighed. "That's all right then. Sorry. Sorry…." He rubbed his forehead. "Diego?"

Felipe pointed. Diego did his best to smile when Gilberto turned his head to look. He understood too much about how they had spent last night to do a very good job of looking happy. Felipe had been terrified that Gilberto would die, and Gilberto had tried his best to ensure that Felipe wouldn't be watching if he did.

Felipe wrapped Gilberto's hands around the tea cup and motioned him to drink. Gilberto complied. He finished one cup and half of another. Diego felt the tight knot of worry in his chest loosen a little.

"Take some tea yourself, and eat some of that bread," Diego said.

Felipe shrugged: not hungry.

"Of course you're hungry. You're still growing. When I was your age I was always hungry…."

Felipe set Gilberto's cup on the table beside the bed and frowned at Diego.

"He will be all right, Felipe."

Felipe winced. "The doctor."

"The doctor…thinks Gilberto is hallucinating a great deal worse than he actually is. If he had broken his skull or pierced his brain, we would know it by now. He needs time…." He stopped, hearing voices in the hall and then the sound of a quick step he couldn't quite identify.

The door swung wide and Father Benitez stumbled into the room. For a moment he froze, his eyes going to the bed, then to Diego, and then back. Then he turned slowly, shut the door, and crossed himself with a shaking hand. He looked very old.

More than a little afraid, Diego rose and took his arm. "Father? Teodoro? Are you ill? What is wrong?"

He shook his head, unable to give a better answer. Diego guided him into the good chair and handed him Gilberto's unfinished tea. "Teodoro? What is it?"

He drained the tea… and set the cup aside…and said very softly, "They are saying in town…that the Fox is dead. I made some excuse to come out this morning….both of you – all of you – were missing. And then when you sent for me this evening, I thought….But he is alive. _Alive_."

Diego, leaning forward to catch the whispered words, squeezed his arm. "He is alive. Hurt, but…it is likely he will recover."

"Where was he shot?"

"Shot?" Diego gasped, glancing helplessly at Felipe, who shook his head.

"He hasn't been shot?"

"No! Dear God. He struck his head. Is that what they are saying in town?"

"….or…bitten?"

"No! Teodoro - "

"Lies, then. Of course." He crossed himself again. His tone was placid again, but his hand was still shaking.

After a moment, Diego said, "Well, this is a mess. They are saying he is _dead_?"

"They climbed down to retrieve the body," Gilberto said suddenly. "Toronado chased off their horses before they could find us and they…gave up."

"How very lazy of them," Diego said sharply. He was dizzy with both terror and rage - although even ten minutes ago he would have sworn he was too tired for either. _Us_, Gilberto had said. It was too easy to picture Felipe and Gilberto hiding. It had been too near for both of them. Diego needed a deep breath.

It took four to drive the feeling of suffocation away, and by then everyone was staring worriedly at _him_. Damn. "Don't," he said. "I'm fine."

Father Benitez ignored that and turned to Felipe. "If you will take Diego, I will look after Gilberto. Do not argue. In a few hours I will have to head back to town. I simply can't stay, and you will want to look after him tonight…."

Felipe nudged Diego's arm. "If you lie down, I can lie down."

The thought of a short reprieve was very tempting, but Diego did not admit that he was grateful. He allowed Felipe to lead him back to his room.

~tbc


	7. March 26, 1815

**March 26, 1815**

**Victoria**

Diego was not in church that morning.

Victoria had very much wanted to talk to him. Diego was so good at being reasonable and reassuring about things, and right now so many things were going wrong.

Yesterday afternoon, the alcalde had posted two new taxes and beaten five of the men on his 'road detail' for 'insubordination.' Zorro had not shown up to protest any of it, and that was the worst thing of all: Zorro was missing. According to the military, he was dead.

The alcalde was demanding that the church hold a memorial mass in Zorro's honor on Monday. Father Benitez protested that he could hardly perform a requiem for someone whose identity he didn't know and whose body could not be located. Everyone in town knew about the quarrel. They had held it in front of both Mendoza and Carlito.

Surely, the alcalde wouldn't dare move against the church. Would he? The people would never stand for it. It would be war! But he knew that, surely. He wouldn't force the matter. Would he?

She was hoping Diego would have some ideas. He was clever and careful. He was good at predicting what the alcalde would do, and that newspaper of his was a great asset on the side of the community. Knowing that his actions would make the newspaper sometimes seemed to deter him from the worst excesses. Especially now, with Zorro missing –

But Don Diego did not come to church that day. According to gossip, Gilberto had been thrown from his horse the day before and the doctor had confined him to bed. It was terrible.

Victoria had never liked Gilberto very much, but even she could see that he was absolutely loyal to his family, a good son and a protective brother. It would devastate Don Alejandro and Diego to lose him...

It was bewilderingly unfair. Gilberto was irritating, but even at his worst, he hadn't been nearly as bad as the alcalde. His flaws couldn't even compare to that ruthless greed, that sadism... Why should Ramone prosper while the de le Vegas – who were honorable and kind – suffer so much?

And why – since she was wondering – should Zorro be an outlaw and the _law_ be only a tool to exploit and impoverish the people? How could the governor or the king or even God himself permit this?

Had Zorro been ripped apart by wolves?

After mass Father Benitez took her aside and asked her not to open the tavern in the afternoon. People were too upset, he said. If they stayed in town after the service…if they were to congregate, or perhaps drink a bit too much... They are good people, but they are grieving and angry and afraid.

He meant that he was afraid there might be a riot.

Victoria agreed. She could easily imagine he was right, if the crowd she'd had yesterday afternoon was any sign. She had dreaded facing that again anyway: listening to the whispers, pretending to be confident that Zorro would appear any moment, making a profit from the pueblo's grief.

In the kitchen, alone, she cooked up a flan and some barley soup; you couldn't go visiting the sick without a gift, after all.

Diego, pale and dressed in only his shirt sleeves, met her in the library.

"Victoria. It was very good of you to come," he said. "Thank you."

"I'm not bothering you, I hope?"

He laughed dryly at that. "Disturb me? I have nothing to do but sit and watch him sleep. Well, and wake him every once in a while to make sure he has not slipped into a coma. Oh, and worry, but that scarcely counts as an 'occupation.'" He made a face. "My goodness, what terrible company I am. I apologize."

"I understand. It must be very difficult. With your father gone and everything." It was not the most gracious expression of sympathy, but she could think of nothing clever or comforting. "It is such a shame, what happened. Gilberto is a very good horseman."

Diego glanced away. "Viking was startled by a snake. It was a terrible fall. But really, I have nothing to complain about. It could have been much worse. Very much worse."

"And you? Are you all right?"

She saw the look of anger flicker across his face. "I am not more useless than usual, which I suppose is something." He winced apologetically. "I am managing. Shall we talk about something else? How are things in town?"

"He has two dozen men working on his highway project! They do not have to work this afternoon because it is Sunday, so they are confined to the stockade. He has - " She stopped. "Perhaps it would be best not to talk about that, either."

"Victoria, I cannot put it in the newspaper if I do not know the details."

She glanced at the wall and told it as quickly and simply as she could: the unvarnished facts were bad enough without further upsetting Diego with her own temper. "He has subjected five of them to public discipline. He has imposed a new series of taxes."

"What is left to tax?" he asked in surprise.

"Oh, caballeros are now charged a fee to tie their horses in the plaza, merchants are taxed on the goods that they sell, and on the value of the stock they have not sold yet."

"Oh, dear..."

Despite all the promises she had made to herself to be calm and cheerful, Victoria felt the chasm of grief opening up inside her. "If only Zorro were still alive."

"Don't be so sure that he's dead. It seems to me it is too soon to give up on him," Diego said gently.

"If he were still alive he would have helped us by now." She shook her head and swallowed hard to keep from crying. "We are on our own...The alcalde is pressuring parish to hold a memorial. He wants to end the myth of Zorro once and for all."

"He won't be able to do that very easily," Diego answered, which was no help if Zorro was dead. A myth could not save them.

Diego didn't have any answers either. It was unfair and foolish to think that he would when no one at all did. "I'm sorry," she said, straightening her shoulders. "I didn't mean to bring you our problems, too. You have enough of your own."

It was a long moment before he spoke. "This is my problem, too, Victoria. Anyway, now I need a few favors from you. If I am to print this story in the paper, I must have an eye witness account. Can you convince Mendoza to come see me today?"

Victoria nodded. It wasn't much, but it was useful in its way. She would do that.

Diego rose and offered her his arm. "And ask Father Benitez to come see me, too?"

"All right." She stood up and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.

"And Victoria…don't provoke him." He was not talking about their priest. "He dislikes you and you have been very…inconvenient. Please. At least until my father gets back, can you..."

She made a face at him. "I will _try_."

"That is all I can ask."

**Felipe**

Diego ordered a very nice snack prepared for the sergeant. Strangely, he looked at the food, put his hands in his pockets, and unhappily turned away. "If it is all right, Don Diego, perhaps a bit later. If you are going to yell at me for killing Zorro, I would rather do it on an empty stomach."

Diego drew back slightly in surprise. "Yell at you? Why would you come for that? No. I thought Victoria had explained. I need your story for the newspaper."

"Well... That is what Senorita Victoria said, but...Don Diego, I am _so sorry_. I never thought Zorro could be killed. Not actually killed."

Diego considered him. "I think perhaps that is not what should appear in the paper, hmmm, Sergeant? Here, sit down. Tell me the story, just from the beginning."

"Well, on Friday morning, we were...that is," he glanced away, probably remembering that he had been sent to stop Diego's own father from leaving the pueblo. "We were on patrol, and we caught sight of Zorro."

The story went on. The chase that lasted over two hours, losing sight of their quarry, then caching sight of him again. Zorro was impossible to catch up with or anticipate, but they had to try, it was their duty...

The facts of the story did not match what Felipe knew. Mendoza claimed that Toronado had reared and tossed his rider into a chasm because he had been grazed by a bullet, but Felipe knew for a fact that the stallion had not been injured. Then the lancers had returned to town to report their victory….and been sent back with long ropes and pulleys to recover the body.

"I thought there might be a chance he was still alive, and Zorro, he is very dangerous, so we...made sure he was..." Mendoza lowered his voice so far that Felipe had to read his lips. "It would not be good, if he were only injured, to be...in custody."

"Yes, I understand," Diego said neutrally.

"And then we climbed down. It was very treacherous and steep, and some of the men, they are not good climbers, even with rope...but when we got there we discovered we had taken too long. The coyotes had already gotten to him. It is very sad, a hero like that. I hardly slept, thinking about it."

Felipe went to the doorway and looked out in to the hall. He didn't know what was showing on his face. He couldn't imagine how Diego just sat there calmly taking notes.

"And we will never know who he was. I think that might be fitting...for a legend. If you know what I mean." He sighed heavily.

Diego nodded absently, scribbling notes as quickly as the quill would move.

Sargent Mendoza rose, picked up his chair and carried it over so that it was only inches from Diego's. He sat down again.

"Don Diego? You can not put this story in the paper. You must not publish the paper at all this week. I am sorry, but surely you can see it?"

Diego set the pen down and regarded Mendoza with astonishment. "What are you talking about?"

"I think, perhaps, you should not go into town at all until your father returns. He is really our only hope now."

"Now of all times Los Angeles needs _The Guardian_."

Mendoza shook his head sadly. He would not meet Diego's eyes. "The alcalde hates you almost as much as Zorro. He has been daydreaming ways to kill you. I think right now his favorite idea is to challenge you to a duel and draw the fight out until ... until you can't..."

"_Me_? Why?"

But this time, Mendoza was not fooled by the innocent act. "I don't know what the two of you are quarrelling over, but there is something. You know what it is. And whatever it was, the trial only made it worse. Much worse. The only reason you are still alive is that he was more afraid of Zorro then he hated you. Oh, and your father, of course. But they are both gone now."

"I am...astonished." Felipe judged that his mystification was probably genuine at this point. Felipe was astonished, too, but the surprise wasn't that the alcalde was after Diego (he knew exactly why – Diego was blackmailing him over his embezzlement over the aquifer money) but that Mendoza knew and was actually talking about it.

"The only solution I can think of is for you to stay out of his way. I can't help you; I have enough problems of my own. The people are angry at what the alcalde is doing in town and they are terrified of what he will do next and they are so upset about Zorro, because he was their hero and because there is no one to protect them now. But he doesn't see it, he will keep pushing and pushing…."

"You think there will be an uprising."

"My men will be ordered to fire on civilians. I can't see any other way this can end."

Diego nodded. "I see you have quite a problem..."

"So you see why there can be no newspaper on marketday. If you publish anything the government might disapprove of he will use that for an excuse to jail you or worse."

"Thank you, Sargent. I'll consider what you've said very carefully."

He deflated. "You are going to do it anyway."

"I honestly don't know what I am going to do. I have a great deal to think about."

Felipe was not present for Diego's talk with Father Benitez later that evening. He could tell from the tone, though, that they quarreled for the entire half hour they were together. He could also tell, by the worried look the priest had when he blessed Felipe on his way to the door, that Diego had won the argument.

After seeing him out, Felipe returned to Diego's room. He was doing weight calculations for gun powder. Felipe shut the door. "He was unhappy," he said, when Diego looked up.

"You won't be happy either."

Felipe nodded. "You are going to have to be Zorro. When?"

Diego looked surprised at that.

"I'm not an idiot. When are we doing this?"

"Tomorrow night, at the memorial. I can't chance doing it more than once, so I will need to be seen by a great many people."

Felipe frowned. "Can it wait that long?"

"Father Benitez will speak to the friars at the mission and to Don Roberto and Senor Estevez. Between them, they can keep things quiet until then. They will have to. It is going to take some preparation if I am going to get through this appearance without giving myself away or getting into a duel." He sighed. "I will need your help, I'm afraid."

Felipe nodded.

"I hate to ask it."

"I have as much to lose as anyone. Tell me the plan."

The plan was to interrupt the memorial service (to shock everyone as much as possible) and then use rockets to stage a cannon attack so that the alcalde would be convinced that Zorro had brought an army to surround the town and force a surrender.

Felipe shook his head. "Too chancy. And not like Zorro. The alcalde would never believe it. Zorro has no army."

"Felipe, I cannot risk getting into a fight with the lancers. But if I just slink away it will be obvious that… that either Zorro is too injured to be a real threat or that it isn't the real Zorro at all."

"Do something more _Zorro_," Felipe said, shaking his head. He grinned. "The fireworks." They had tested them once; just one, in a canyon, after a rain and during daylight. It had worked and even been a bit impressive. At night, over a town full of people who had never seen that kind of extravagance before, the effect would inspire surprise and awe. "That would be like Zorro."

"It would be...impressive," Diego admitted. "Quite surprising."

They didn't tell Gilberto what was going on. It wasn't that he wouldn't understand, it was that he would understand completely. He couldn't have stopped them; the headache was still quite bad and he was weak and sore, but he would have fussed and nagged and then he would have started threatening. They didn't have the time and neither of the twins had the strength to waste. Really, it was better that he just not know.

Diego spent the morning putting time delay fuses on the fireworks. Felipe tried to keep Gilberto company, but he was in a miserable mood and after snapping four times about the light being too bright or the tea being bitter or the melon being too green he had shut his mouth and turned his face away and refused to talk about anything.

In the afternoon he asked for Diego.

"He's sleeping," Felipe answered. It was true. Diego was gathering strength for later.

"Why is he avoiding me? Did it hurt him?"

Felipe shook his head firmly. "He hasn't been avoiding you. He has been busy."

"Busy." Gilberto narrowed his eyes and sat up slowly. "I may be dying and he's busy."

"You are not dying!" Felipe contradicted at once.

"Of course I'm not. That isn't the point. I _might_ be. He wouldn't know. He isn't here. Because he is _busy_."

Oh, dear. Gilberto really was very clever. If he was feeling well enough to think he would surely notice…something. Whatever they least wanted him to notice, probably.

"I am watching you."

"Hm. Don't take this the wrong way, but you cannot read aloud."

Felipe rolled his eyes and waved that away. "He tried it yesterday. You complained about the noise."

"Yesterday, I was not bored."

"You are being unfair! And mean! You were easier to look after when you were addled!" But he regretted that last because Gilberto suddenly went very still. Felipe waited - and waited – for some sharp retort but Gilberto seemed to grow smaller. He leaned back against the pillows.

"I didn't mean it. You know that, don't you?" But Gilberto was not looking at him so he didn't see the apology.

Still looking away, he said, "You were very kind. I should thank you, but I honestly don't know where to begin. I should tan your hide for disobeying: I know ordered you to leave."

Felipe huffed at him and rolled his eyes. "Over and over and over."

"You surely saved my life. At the very least I could not have escaped the search party alone."

Felipe planted himself directly in front of him. "Stop it. It was nothing."

Gilberto rubbed his thumb across his forehead. "If you thought my life was nothing, you would not have saved it."

This was a little shocking. Gilberto might occasionally look at him seriously, but only if they were talking about Diego. Felipe didn't quite know how to respond. Half-kidding and half relying on their old bickering, he said, "You're still addled."

Gilberto wouldn't be drawn into that game. He whispered, "You were kinder than I deserve."

"You are Zorro, the hero. The legend."

Gilberto gestured to the bandage on his head. "Oh, yes. Some hero."

"You are my family."

"Yes, well, nobody fights like family. And certainly nobody knows you like - " He broke off suddenly and emitted a stream of profanity that by all rights should have peeled the wall paper off the wall.

Felipe dashed forward and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Gilberto groaned and squeezed his eyes tight. Tentatively, Felipe let him go. "It serves you right," he motioned. "Yelling like that. Of course it hurts your head."

"I'm going to kill him. What is the plan?"

Felipe squinted and leaned forward for a better look, but you couldn't tell from the outside if someone was delirious, especially if they had their eyes open….

"What," Gilberto bit out softly, "is my brother going to do?"

Oh. Not delirious. Suspicious. "He is not going to fight anyone."

"How nice to know. What is the plan?"

"You shouldn't worry about this. Or fight with him. Really. It is not good for either of you."

A pause. A small, desperate noise. Then, "Felipe, please. I...can understand that things must be rather difficult in the pueblo just now. The alcalde is probably taking advantage of my absence. And I know how Diego hates to let an injustice slide by him. But Felipe, his health is more important than his sensitivities. You have been my ally in this, always. We look after Diego, you and I..._Good God, are you laughing_?"

Felipe wasn't, quite. But it was terribly funny, Gilberto charming _him_, flattering _him_. It was absurd.

"Felipe, please. You can't be condoning this."

Felipe shook his head. "You have to trust us. You have to trust him. It is a good plan. And also necessary."

Gilberto closed his eyes. Felipe sat on the edge of the bed and waited until he looked again. "It is a good plan. It is better and safer than doing nothing. Trust us."

"Tell me, then."

So Felipe did.

Felipe, as always, missed all the good parts.

Zorro appeared out of thin air (actually out of the vestry) in the middle of the eulogy (which Felipe would dearly have loved to hear, but in all the excitement, nobody could remember what was actually said) that the alcalde was giving before the memorial proper.

One woman actually fainted (although there was no agreement on who it had been, so it might only have been a story). The alcalde shouted that Zorro was dead and somebody better arrest the imposter, but Zorro had the sword and the voice and the height and so the lancers panicked. Two of the ones who had seen him 'dead' actually turned and fled.

With the sword jauntily resting on his shoulder, Zorro guided the alcalde outside for a proper 'celebration.'

The timing had been a bit off, since coordination had been by timepiece rather than observation. The first firework burst overhead while the former mourners were still coming out the door. Zorro announced that the celebration wasn't just for him (after all, there was nothing all that special about evading a patrol, he did it two or three times a month) but because the alcalde had decided to rescind the new taxes and pay the road crew.

The second firework – a lovely green shower that Diego had made with copper powder – boomed and rained down while the crowd was cheering the announcement.

Felipe had been right about the display; hardly anybody had seen fireworks before. Los Angeles never had that kind of money for public celebrations even if imported luxuries hadn't been scarce for a long time now. Half the town pressed back against the church, flinching at the noise (since it sounded like the town was taking cannon fire) and the other half stood transfixed in the plaza, too astonished by the beauty to move.

Zorro slipped away in the excitement. They had debated bringing Toronado in and making a grand exit into the night, but they had not tested Toronado's reaction to fireworks and if he had panicked it would have been a disaster, so Zorro slipped back into the church and turned into Diego, who was calmly standing beside Victoria when the pyrotechnics ended.

The alcalde hadn't even bothered to rant or order a search.

~tbc


	8. April 13, 1815

_All disclaimers apply. Not mine. No profit. _

_Oooo, hey, and waving at India and South Africa and Egypt and Italy and Belgium! Some days globalization is soooo cool!_

**April 13, 1815**

Diego was almost finished clearing page two when Pepe dashed into the newspaper office. "The patron is back!" Diego started to rise, but hesitated, glancing at the unfinished plate.

"We'll be all right, Boss," Nicholas said. "Just don't forget to leave Felipe the key. We'll close up."

Diego collected his current chaperone (Felix, today, sitting outside the newspaper office whittling an axe handle) and returned home.

Maria directed him to the rose garden, where Father was inspecting the roses, frowning a bit at the yellow leaves caused by the recent wet weather. At the sight of Diego he heaved a huge sigh and hurried over to embrace him. "Are you well? Diego?"

"I'm fine. Really, don't frown at me."

"Ah, Diego…." He sighed again.

"You've made very good time. Was your trip all right?"

"Oh, yes, yes."

"Here, Father. Sit down. Did you talk to the governor?"

"Yes, yes we did. He won't recall Ramone outright. A territorial commissioner will come down next month to…inquire into our situation."

"Well, a recall was surely too much to expect," Diego said, though they had all been hoping for it.

"Your brother has always thought there was some nepotism or extortion involved in his appointment." Father's lips thinned. "He may be right. We laid out documentation of corruption, incompetence, cruelty…."

"A territorial commissioner is something."

"It is." He paused. "Diego, about your brother?"

"Yes? Oh. The accident. I suppose you have heard all about it."

"How is he doing?"

Diego had been rehearsing this discussion for most of three weeks. "It was a bad fall," he said. "It was a week before he could read properly and another week before the head aches went away. But he's been fine these last few days. We were very lucky."

"Diego," Father said grimly, "your brother is asleep in the library. He fell asleep in the middle of the day, during a conversation, with his shoes on. You cannot tell me he is well."

"Oh. I wouldn't worry about that. He was up all night with the hideous ewe. She delivered two, and…it was a heard night. And she has rejected the smaller one. Gilberto didn't get any sleep."

"I see."

"He has turned the lamb over to Pepe to hand feed for a while."

"Never mind the lamb, your brother - "

"Is _fine_, Father. I admit it was frightening at the time. And I think he scared poor Felipe out of a year's growth. But the injury seems to have been uncomplicated. He doesn't have all his strength back, but he is getting there."

"Hmmm." Father considered. "All right. We'll leave that for now. I need to ask your opinion of Viking."

"Viking?"

Father sighed again. Diego felt a stab of sympathy. Father must have worried a great deal while he was gone, and then he came home to problems. "Does he need to be destroyed?"

"Destroyed…."

"Your brother is an excellent rider. I would have said Viking was reliable. A bit spirited, but reliable."

"No – Father. No, Viking wasn't at fault. The snake was huge and none of us knew what was happening until Gilberto was in the air," It was a lie, but a necessary one, and Diego was committed to maintaining it. "It was an accident. It could happen to anyone. These things happen."

"Your brother is fond of the horse."

"Yes. But if he were dangerous, I _would_ tell you. Hmmm. If I needed to. Gilberto can be practical about these things."

"He can also be very sentimental."

"Now you are just looking for things to worry about. The hacienda is still standing. We are all still alive. It was difficult and we had problems, but we managed."

"Of all the things I worried about while I was gone…your brother getting bucked off a horse! It never occurred to me. The thought is terrifying."

"I won't argue about that," Diego said. "But he really is much better." He thought he had better change the subject. "The house is coming along well. We had three days of rain last week, so that was another hold up, but the exterior walls are all up now."

~tbc


	9. April 20, 1815

**April 20, 1815**

**Felipe**

That week two separate ships arrived in the harbor at San Pedro. The first was from Mexico. It and its cargo of orphans had been expected. What was not expected was the number of them: thirty-two rather than twenty. There was still no proper orphanage. The mission had expanded another couple of rooms to accommodate their guests, but with so many more than anyone had planned for things were said to be a little crowded.

Also on the ship were three actual nuns. They had come to look after the children. Felipe had heard of nuns, of course, but he had never seen one. It was as startling as seeing an angel. Maybe more startling: angels were supposed to be everywhere, weren't they? But there had never been a nun in Los Angeles before.

In addition to the children, the ship carried medical supplies (including _cinchona_, thank God), paper, lead, chocolate, whale oil, incense for the churches, _cochineal_, and a dozen other little necessities.

The second ship, two days later, was an illegal foreign trader: The _Louise Smith_ out of Boston. It carried a few passengers and a great cargo of luxuries: tea, sugar, cumin, cinnamon, silk, specialty tools, china, crystal stemware, books. When word came that it had arrived, everyone who was in town pressed close to look at the inventory list. It had been such a long time since anyone had had tea that Senor Estevez hitched up his wagon and left immediately to go and buy as much as he could for the store.

Diego, clearing type from the previous day's paper, was excited by the thought of all the news that must have arrived in addition to the cargo. He planned to ride out to the coast the following day and see if he could learn anything interesting from the sailors. He had already included news from Mexico in yesterday's paper. Another foreign column so soon would be a coup for _The Guardian_.

As Felipe came out of the tavern with the snack tray, he saw the drayage pull up in the center of the plaza. Diego might not have to bestir himself far for someone to give him the news after all: it looked like some of the passengers had disembarked and come to town.

Two older men climbed down from the drayage and looked curiously around the pueblo. They were both well-dressed and clean shaven. Mendoza quickly marched out to get their names and collect the traveler's tax. The shorter of the men protested, but the other just chuckled and handed Mendoza two pesos.

Mendoza thanked him and turned to the other expectantly.

"Certainly not! A traveler's tax. Absurd."

The taller man, looking eagerly around, wandered off, but the second man set his feet stubbornly and argued.

Mendoza motioned the lancer on duty beside the cuartel gate forward.

"But it is _required_."

"Over my dead body," The old man said impatiently. He picked up a sheathed sword and a small bag, signaled the drayage man to bring the rest of the luggage, and turned pointedly away from Mendoza.

"Oh, believe me, Senor," Mendoza said, joking as much as threatening, "the traveler's tax is nothing compared to the death tax."

The old man started for the tavern. The lancer drew his sword and stepped into his path. Casually, without even unsheathing his sword, the old man disarmed the lancer and dropped him to the ground.

Mendoza nearly tripped on his own feet in surprise. Everyone in the plaza was staring now. A group of lancers sitting on the tavern porch hurried to their feet, drawing their swords. Gilberto, coming from the construction site, broke into a run.

Felipe tightened his grip on the tray and stepped back, out of the way. This could turn into a huge mess.

As four lancers closed on the old man, he drew his sword.

"This is madness," Mendoza protested. "It is only a little tax!" And the, helplessly, "The other guy paid it!"

"His folly is no concern of mine. Now are you going to stop pestering me with this fraudulent 'tax' or are we going to have a little fun?"

"Are you crazy?" Mendoza gasped. "You are outnumbered four to one! And you are old!"

"I'll try to take it easy on you."

Mendoza groaned and waved the lancers forward. "Take him."

The lancers started forward and Felipe winced in anticipation.

The old man ducked and whirled and one lancer was down, his sword rolling out of his grasp.

Rising form his duck, he tripped another lancer and punched him in the jaw on the way down.

He caught and tangled the swords of the remaining two, pushing them _back_, even though he was short and old and dressed for a very nice party rather than a fight.

Another duck. A change of direction. He did something with his elbow and the first lancer, trying to rise, was now on his back.

The two who were still standing glanced at each other and pulled back a step. Felipe saw one of them say, "It's another damned Zorro."

The old man repositioned himself, sweeping the plaza with his eyes. And then he grinned hugely. "Ah! Berto! How nice to see you, dear boy!" With his toe he snared a sword that was lying on the ground and flipped it into the air.

Gilberto caught the blade almost absently, then blinked at it in alarm and dropped it. "What are you doing! Sir Edmond! This is no way for a guest to act!" He shoved forward, elbowing Mendoza out of the way and putting himself between the lancers and the old man. "What is the matter with you!" This was to Mendoza. "Have you no manners at all! This man is a professor at the university in Madrid. He is a British knight! Is this how we greet visitors? Is the garrison arresting people for – unloading their luggage now?" Gilberto, arrogant and indignant, was a sight to behold.

Mendoza flinched and drew back, protesting, "He will not pay the traveler's tax!"

"Is that _all_? You set a squad of soldiers on a respectable gentleman for two pesos? Shame on you sergeant!" He produced two pesos and held them out impatiently.

The old man looked horrified. "You can't be serious."

"Excellent thought, Don Gilberto. There is no sense in anyone getting hurt," Mendoza said quickly.

Gilberto leaned toward the old man and said, "I know. But in Los Angeles, you have to pick your battles, and I didn't know you were coming." He caught Felipe's eye and nodded toward the newspaper office. "Quick. Fetch him," he signed.

Running as fast as he could without endangering the pitcher of milk on the tray, Felipe raced to _The Guardian_ office. "You have to come! There is a stranger, and Gilberto knows him and he can fight, really _fight_ and he's tiny and old. In the tavern, come on."

Diego frowned. "Two old men had a small fight in the tavern?"

Felipe rolled his eyes, caught Diego by the sleeve, and tugged. Diego, not seeing the urgency, hung back to wipe the ink off his hands, which was silly. It always took a day to wear off.

In the tavern, Gilberto and the old man were already seated with a bottle of wine. Diego, catching sight of them, froze in the doorway and put out his hand for balance. "Sir Edmond," he whispered.

The old man must have had excellent hearing, because he looked up at once and leapt to his feet. "Diego!" he called.

Slowly, Diego went to the table. "Sir Edmond. I think I must be dreaming. How wonderful to see you."

"I could say the same, my boy. I haven't had a letter from you in over a year. I'd no idea if I'd find you still alive." He looked Diego up and down. "You look marvelous. Better than I could have hoped. California agrees with you."

"It's good to be home. Oh. This is little Felipe." He drew Felipe forward. "This is Sir Edmond Kendal, our sabre master. He was a very good friend to us in Madrid."

"Not so little any more." Indeed, Felipe was as tall as sir Edmond. "But why are you both filthy?"

Felipe winced a bit at his ink-stained shirt, but Diego only laughed. "I am the editor of the local newspaper. Also the publisher. And the chief typesetter."

"_This_ village has a newspaper? Oh, Diego. Sit down and tell me more. What possible news could there be to publish?"

Felipe felt a bit offended at that, but Diego and Gilberto both laughed. "More than you'd think," Diego said and Gilberto added, "He's very good at it."

"Yes, but - "

"Later," Diego said, giving him a tight look. "Let's get you some lunch, and then we'll head home. Father went to the orchard this morning, but he should be home by the time we finish eating. He'll be delighted to see you." He turned to Felipe. "I hate to do this to you again. You and Nicholas are already so understanding." He held out the key to the newspaper office.

"No problem. We'll finish up. I'll see you later."

**Alejandro**

Coming in from the barn he heard laughter in the parlor. Men, and more than just his boys. Curious, Alejandro approached the doorway.

He recognized Edmond at once, but oh, he was not prepared to see him looking so…changed. Surely this small, balding, pale man could not be his old friend.

But he had not seen him in almost thirty years. A lifetime. Alejandro had been a different man then, too. Dryly, he cleared his throat.

Edmond looked up. "Ah," he said. He smiled.

"Hello, Father. We have a surprise."

Despite all the years behind him, Edmond jumped up with all of his old grace and speed. "Ah, Alejandro. It is so good to see you."

Alejandro managed to nod and clasp his hand.

"I am sorry I gave you no warning - "

"No. You're welcome. Always. We're delighted…." He glanced at the boys, who nodded happily. "You swore you'd never leave Europe!"

A shadow fell across Edmond's face. "There is a great deal to say about that. But perhaps, not now…."

"Oh. No. Of course. Here, sit with me. How was the crossing?"

"The weather was excellent, but it was very slow. I was on four separate ships. I spent a month in Puerto Rico, which I must say, was very pleasant."

"I hope Los Angeles doesn't compare too unfavorably. You've come at a lovely time of year."

Edmond frowned. "I'm sure the climate will live up to its reputation, but my welcome left something to be desired. I scarcely believe I am in the Spanish Territories. I hadn't been off the ship for an hour before a brigade sergeant tried to extort money from me."

Shocked, Alejandro glanced at the twins for confirmation. Gilberto shook his head. "The traveler's tax. I paid it before anyone got hurt."

Alejandro sighed. "Something else we need to talk about. The territorial government leaves a lot to be desired. There is some hope for relief there, but in the meantime it is necessary to…walk carefully."

"That is…disappointing," Edmond said heavily.

"Sir Edmond," Gilberto said softly, "How is Master Nurgaliyev?"

Diego scowled and kicked his brother discretely.

Gilberto sadly shook his head. "I don't think waiting will help."

"No. It won't help." The old man sighed deeply. "I've dreaded telling you. Master Nurgaliyev is dead."

Gilberto nodded sadly. Diego said, "We are very sorry to hear it." He glanced at Alejandro. "One of the biology lecturers at the university. He was…kind and intelligent and an excellent teacher."

"A close friend of mine," Edmond said.

The twins shared a look and Alejandro felt his heart skink. Carefully, he said, "Edmond, if there are things you cannot discuss we will leave it here." That earned him sideways glances from both of the boys, but there was no help for it.

"No. On the contrary. There are some things that _must_ be talked about. It is only difficult because of my own…disappointment. What happened was entirely political."

This switch was far too fast. "Political?"

"You are aware that last year the king revoked the constitution?"

Diego nodded. "After only two years. That was hardly enough time to declare it a 'failure.'"

Alejandro dropped his eyes to the floor. A copy of that constitution had been passed around the colonies. Diego had been ill at the time and he had been too worried about his son to care much for politics, but he had read it. It had been a marvelous document: freedom, the rule of law, the right to vote, property reform…. But the king was the king, and the sovereignty of Spain was embodied in him.

Edmond was continuing. "Things have been difficult in the capital. It got worse after you left. Poverty. Chaos. Schools closing—that school of the deaf you were always so interested in Diego, it had to close because there was no food for the students."

Diego clinched his jaw. Gilberto asked, "The university?"

"It continued. We continued. But you must understand… students are idealistic, intelligent young men. They tend to believe in justice or democracy or even humanism. They took it badly when King Ferdinand repudiated the constitution. And there were arrests. And there were protests. Last June, twenty-three of our students were arrested for 'revolutionary activities.'"

Gilberto cursed.

"Traitors?" Alejandro asked tightly.

"Reformers. Constitutionalists. Master Nurgaliyev was publically opposed to the idea of the return of absolute monarchy – for reasons that were both practical and philosophical. He resisted when they came for him."

Alejandro closed his eyes. "You have my sympathies."

"I…had stayed out of politics, but I was guilty by association. And also British."

"The British were a great help against the French," Gilberto protested.

"A particular help to The Cortes that drafted the constitution in the first place," Alejandro remembered.

Edmond nodded. "Exactly." He rose and went to the window. "I was hoping, so far from the center, that I would find more freedom here in California. Or, if things had not improved in the last three years…perhaps I came to offer my help." The last was a whisper.

Not knowing what else to say, Alejandro told the story of the last four years. Half-way through, Gilberto began to pace, his arms folded tightly. Diego didn't move at all. It seemed to take forever to tell it all, but it seemed important to tell everything and be honest about his own failure to protect the colony from its legal government.

"You've seen Los Angeles. I'll show you more tomorrow. The peons could not defend themselves f rom the army. And it would come to that."

"What will you do if the commissioner doesn't come? Or allows himself to be bribed?"

"Edmond, I honestly don't know."

Diego roused himself at last. "Sir Edmond, let me show you to your room. You've had a very long journey. You should rest before supper."

As soon as they were gone, Gilberto stalked out in the other direction. A moment later Alejandro heard the back door slam.

Alone, he sat down on the piano stool and ran his hands silently over the keys.

**Felipe**

When Felipe came to the cave to feed Toronado and let him run around for a bit, he found Gilberto wiping him down from a heavy lather.

Felipe tapped his shoulder and pointed to the towel. What was he doing? "You have company."

Gilberto sighed. "The company is resting….." He ran his hand over Toronado's neck and sighed again.

"What's wrong?"

Gilberto turned and looked at him for a long moment. "Felipe….there has been some trouble at in the capital. The university. The government is cracking down on free thinking."

Oh. That. Well, of course. The government wouldn't want people disagreeing or complaining, would it? The only thing that kept the alcalde from arresting and whipping everyone who complained about _him_ was Zorro.

Oh. Maybe that was what worried him. "Zorro can handle it here," he said reassuringly.

Gilberto frowned at him. "What? Oh, no. Yes, it is bad here, too, but that wasn't what I was thinking about." He sighed again. "One of our teachers at the university was killed. He was…Well, he was Russian. There weren't many of us studying Russian. He used to hold salons…so we could practice…."

Oh. "I'm sorry."

"That a man could be killed – not for any crime – but for having the wrong opinion…." He tucked Toronado's head against him and bowed his head. "Maybe Diego was right about Franklin and those Americans."

Felipe waited, but he didn't look up, so he prodded him with a thumb. "You are Zorro for two years!" Felipe raised his hands and shook his head. Was he just now noticing?

"Ramone…isn't the same. He exceeds his actual authority…flouts the _law_, and the law is not so bad…."

Felipe gave him a look but refrained from calling him an idiot.

Gilberto shook his head. "You make excuses….you can tell yourself he continues only because the legitimate government has too many problems of its own…or is too far away…or perhaps there is one more incompetent above him…. There are a thousand reasons why it doesn't _matter_ that Ramone is a predator."

"What can you do? You can't overthrow the government. Los Angeles against the Spanish Empire?" Felipe shook his head.

"What kind of nation is it where there is no justice and an _outlaw_ must protect the people from the government?"

Oh. Well. That was just stupid. "Lots of things are unfair! _Every_thing is unfair! All you can do is be good and keep trying anyway - " he realized he was going way too fast, so he had to say all that again, slowly.

"Oh," Gilberto said after Felipe finished. "Nothing has ever been fair for you, and still, you've been…." He glanced away. "You know, you would have had a vote under that new constitution. When you were grown up, I mean. Very enlightened."

Felipe shrugged. "You already knew that."

"I knew it. And it was right, obviously: Citizenship, the rule of law, free speech….but if I had still been in Madrid… I wouldn't have been one of the students arrested. I knew what was right, but I didn't care very much."

Which was just stupid. "You care enough to get shot at. About twice a month."

Gilberto pressed his lips together for a moment. "That is kind of you to say." He shook his head. "But you know why I do it: to protect my father and Diego…my neighbors…my home, not for the idea of justice. Diego is the idealist."

Felipe thought about that. "If Diego had been in Madrid, he would have been taken."

"_Oh_, yes. Yes, my little brother…he always cared about what was right." He sighed. "Well. You have noticed: he is a better man than I."

Felipe patted his arm. "No. He isn't."

Gilberto just stared at him, so Felipe assumed the discussion was over and set about putting out Toronado's feed.

~tbc


	10. April 24, 1815

**April 24, 1815**

**Felipe**

Initially, Felipe had taken no notice of the taller man who had arrived on the same ship as Sir Edmond. Around the pueblo, though, he attracted much more attention than Don Alejandro's old friend. Like Sir Edmond, Sebastian Moreno was a foreigner; Portuguese rather than English.

He was a famous writer, apparently. He had been traveling in the exotic islands to the east of Mexico when he heard about the great folk hero Zorro, and he had come all the way to California in order to write a book about him.

The people of Los Angeles were a bit awed by his credentials (he showed them a couple of actual books he had written) but they found his intention to research Zorro very amusing. It wasn't as though you could buy him a drink in the tavern or that he stopped to talk when he raced through town.

Gilberto, when he found out about it, had a smile all afternoon. "Do you suppose that anyone in Europe would want to read about Zorro?"

Diego, working on the (somewhat delicate) article on news from Spain for the paper, managed to give Gilberto a stern glare without actually looking at him.

Felipe shook his head. "It won't matter. There won't be any book. The alcalde will kill him."

Both of the twins froze, their shoulders slumping slightly. "He's right," Diego said softly. "There can be no discussion of Zorro without bringing a great deal of attention to the corruption in Los Angeles. Moreno won't be allowed to write his book."

They were in the library at the time. Gilberto answered in sign: "Think of something."

Diego had raised his hands in mock helplessness, but later convinced his father to invite Senor Moreno to supper on Monday night. Felipe wasn't entirely sure how this would help, unless the twins were going to try to convince Moreno to run away and not look back.

There was no convincing him of anything. He was much more willing to talk than listen. All through dinner he held forth on the stories of Zorro that were circulating in South America, the Caribbean, and even in Europe.

He was not having an easy time getting the local people of Los Angeles to talk about their legend, however, which was very frustrating.

Don Alejandro had seen the potential dangers of this 'Zorro research' independently of any prompting by the twins. He tried – in very blunt terms – to convey the problem, but Moreno was either amazingly thick or had a very low regard for his own safety.

A couple of times, Don Alejandro had glanced at Sir Edmond for help, but the older man seemed cheerfully oblivious to the conversation.

After his father's third try at making the point, Diego finally changed the subject: "Just how do you intend to identify Zorro? After all, the government has been trying for two years."

"Ah, now that is an interesting question. It will depend mainly on careful, systematic observation."

Diego leaned forward, apparently enraptured. "Do go on."

"The population of the territory is very small. The number of men the right age and height must be limited. It is only a matter of making note of physical attributes and mannerisms. I expect it will only take two or three observations of the subject to discover who he is."

Gilberto kept on eating as though it were the best food he had ever encountered. Diego said, "But surely, if it were so easy, the government would already have him?"

"Ah. But you see, that would require personal…encounters with the citizens. The military is not well liked in Los Angeles, is it? There is not much social mixing between the lancers and the local people. Even the alcalde – I suspect he is rarely invited to parties. His opportunity for observation is limited mostly to formal encounters." He shook his head to show what he thought of that. "I, on the other hand, am a threat to no one. And I am very personable. People _do_ talk to me."

"An…interesting thesis," Diego said delicately. "But the alcalde is not the only one who is curious about the identity of Zorro. If all that is needed s opportunity…why has no one else done it?"

Moreno laughed. "I suspect someone has. Probably many someones. Whoever Zorro is…is probably an open secret among his neighbors."

"Your job would be much easier if you could convince Zorro's coconspirators to just tell you what they know."

"Yes," Moreno answered cheerfully. "Obviously. But I don't think it will be quite that easy."

The de le Vegas glanced at one another in bewilderment. "You really think you are going to do it?" Don Alejandro asked.

Moreno was completely undeterred by their doubts. When he had finally taken his leave, Sir Edmond glanced at the closed door and shook his head. "The man is a complete idiot. His books are romantic nonsense – He generously allowed me to read them on the ship." Everyone nodded; apparently it was very boring to be on a ship. "Drivel."

Don Alejandro speculated that he might be a little mad and shook his head sadly. Then, comparing idiots and possibly-mad people they had known in Madrid, the two older men drifted off to the library to play chess.

As soon as they turned the corner, Gilberto sagged and ran his hands through his hair. "Well," he said to Diego and Felipe. "Assume a polite 'good evening,' and all that." And he retreated toward his room.

Diego pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment and then followed him. Felipe, of course, followed Diego.

Diego pursued his brother to his room and shut the door firmly before saying anything: "None of this is your fault. What Moreno chooses to do is not your problem."

"And what the alcalde does?"

"We've had this discussion before. You are not responsible. Your choice to stop him when you can does not make you at fault when you cannot."

"You'll say that to me. But if you were in my place, you would be _trying_ to do something."

Gilberto stared at the wall. Diego bowed his head and pinched his nose again.

"We did try to do something," Diego said finally. "Moreno is…uncommonly stupid."

"It's one thing to say stupidity is a capital offense. It's another to stand by and watch a man die."

"Perhaps Zorro should stay out of town for a while. Perhaps he'll get bored and give up."

"Oh, yes. A brilliant plan. One of your best, I'm sure."

Diego scowled and thumbed his forehead hard.

Gilberto folded his arms and asked, "How frequent are these headaches?"

"I don't know. Not very. It's nothing."

"I'm sorry. I have no business brooding at you over something we _can't_ fix."

"Or to yourself, either."

Gilberto compressed his lips.

"Zorro has not solved all our problems, but he has solved a great many…."

"All right. You win. Let it be." He motioned to Felipe to get Diego off to bed.

For the next couple of weeks Zorro made no appearances in town. He didn't even ride out where farmers could see him in obscure places. It wasn't difficult: things were peaceful in town. The quiet of Lent continued into the weeks after Easter. Perhaps the alcalde had run out of ideas for oppressing people. Or perhaps he was only embarrassed from gloating over Zorro's death prematurely.

Gilberto took advantage of his free time to create complex charts about wind and temperature and clouds. He also fussed a great deal about his bees, visited the Neilsons, read two new books that had arrived on the recent ships, built three of the kites from Diego's design notebook…he seemed, to Felipe, completely bored.

The rains stopped coming, though the creeks were still full. Progress on the new house speeded up. Ranchers began to make plans for the spring round-up and the parties that would follow.

Don Alejandro fussed over Ducinea (definitely gravid and becoming spoiled), showed his guest over the rancho, and made arrangements with the mission to hire extra men to help with the round-up.

The lamb that Pepe had been given to hand-feed took to following him around like a pet. Felipe would have worried about that, but the lamb was a ewe and one of the prized ugly ones. There was no danger Pepe's little friend would wind up on the supper table.

~tbc


	11. May 8, 1815

**May 8, 1815**

**Victoria**

The tavern was unusually busy for a Monday morning. The coach had limped in during the early hours of the morning with a cracked axel, and it wouldn't be fixed until at least tomorrow. The five coach passengers would be spending an extra day in Los Angeles. Besides that, four caballeros from Santa Barbara had come in to buy supplies now that the merchants were well stocked. The gentlemen were staying with friends, but had come to the tavern for breakfast and gossip before going shopping.

Now it was more than an hour after breakfast usually ended and the tavern was still full: three very old men sat at the bar sipping tea (a luxury everyone was glad to see again), a card game was going out on the porch, and at the front Don Sebastian was playing chess with the odd author Moreno.

One of the customers was taking up far more than his share of Victoria's attention: Diego de le Vega was seated at the table by the window frowning fiercely at some kind of booklet and taking occasional notes on his pad. She found herself glancing up every few minutes as she wiped down the tables and swept the floor. She made herself finish tidying up and putting the bread for lunch in the oven before she went over to refill his orange juice. "Do you need anything else?" she asked.

"No, thank you," he said absently. Then he looked up. "Victoria. Ah." He slipped a couple of envelopes out of his pile of papers and discreetly passed them to her.

"For this week?" she whispered in surprise. Her advice column had appeared in last week's _Guardian_.

Diego shook his head. "I wouldn't give you two days' notice."

One of the guests walked past on the way to the privy out back, and Victoria pushed the envelopes into her apron pocket. "Is your father in town today?" she asked, raising her voice a little.

Diego leaned back in his chair. "No, in fact. He and Sir Edmond have taken some men into the hills to select timber for the upstairs floors. The house is coming together very quickly now. I spent Saturday checking the measurements, and today 'Berto is down with the crew setting the fireplaces."

"How soon will it be finished?"

"Well…" Diego sighed. "All the work will stop when the round-up starts," he glanced away, and Victoria remembered that he didn't ride out with the vaqueros anymore. "After that there is the grain harvest; we'll lose about half the men. Late spring is always busy….Summer, perhaps; if it is dry, some of the farmers will be looking for work." He shrugged. "By fall perhaps it will be finished enough to use on newspaper days. If it goes well…we'll hold a party for All Saints'."

"I'll need a new dress," she said half a moment before she realized that it was impolite to presume an invitation to a party that had not yet been announced. Quickly, Victoria glanced down at the notes he had been taking so seriously. "For the newspaper?" she asked. Last week there had been a two-column translation of an American essay on democracy and the responsibilities of citizenship. Victoria suspected that the treatise had come to Los Angeles with Senor Kendell, although it could easily have been among the cargo of either of the recent ships.

Diego scowled. "Soap recipes. Very nice, English soap recipes. Not news, obviously, but the paper can't be serious all the time….The translation isn't going well."

"Really?" His translations of scientific journals or historical commentaries were always very smooth.

"If I'm reading the measurements correctly…this won't work…." He sighed. "Maybe I should ask Maria; she used to make the soap for the hacienda."

"Bring him a snack," Gilberto said, loping in and pulling out a chair. "He gets a little slow when he doesn't eat." Despite the cheerful mockery he scanned Diego with his eyes and pressed his shoulder before he sat. "A glass of milk…."

"No. And you are being rude," Diego said through his teeth.

"Cheese, then," Gilberto continued smoothly. "If you wouldn't mind, Senorita Victoria. And perhaps a little cold meat, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

Victoria blinked. She thought his honeyed tone and perfect formality were teasing, but he didn't seem to be teasing _her_ and not meanly. You could never tell with Gilberto. Regardless of what he intended, though, she was not sure she should allow Gilberto to order for his brother. She opened her mouth to ask Diego what _he_ wanted when Gilberto turned away dismissively and said, "When you finish playing with the soap, I'll need you to come look at that west wall and check the measurements for the second floor."

"Seeing as I am forbidden the use of ladders I hardly-"

Raised voices from outside interrupted him. Frowning, Victoria set down the juice pitcher and went to the front door, the de le Vega twins trailing after her. Don Emilio and one of the stage passengers were standing over the poker table. Don Emilio had his hand on his decorative sword and the stranger was grimacing in rage.

Victoria opened her mouth to scold them, but Mendoza was already there. "What is the problem, señores?" he demanded.

The stage passenger – foreign and young and too rough to really seem a gentleman – drew himself up. "No man calls me a cheat and lives!"

Mendoza scowled and pushed a bit closer to them. "This is a peace-loving pueblo. You will act like gentlemen while you are here or you will go to jail for disturbing the peace."

Don Emilio considered Mendoza for a moment, then turned and stalked away. The stranger – Victoria could not quite remember his name – said, "Of course. I've forgotten my manners. I've grown unused to such…genteel surroundings."

Mendoza glanced at the men still at the table. He nodded. "That is better, Senores."

The stranger glanced around and began to gather up coins heaped in the middle of the table. "No hard feelings," he said.

Victoria wondered if she should break up the game. It was technically illegal to gamble. It was also impossible to stop anyone from doing it. Compromising, she turned to Mendoza. "Won't you have a seat, Sergeant? Pilar has some pies about ready to take out of the oven…perhaps you'd like to test one?" Strangers would be more likely to behave themselves with the head of the local garrison right there.

Mendoza visibly brightened. "That would be nice. We are scheduled to ride out in an hour. We'll miss lunch."

"I'll go see if they're ready." Turning to go back inside she nearly bumped into Don Gilberto who was standing still as a statue with his arms folded. "Excuse me," she said, going around. He didn't seem to notice her, but Victoria was too familiar with his rudeness to bother taking offense.

**Felipe **

This was kind of exciting. Felipe couldn't sit still. He'd swept out the newspaper office three times in the last hour. Fortunately, Zorro would show up at any minute.

He glanced over at the tavern. The card game was still going on. Don Emilio was no longer playing, and he had ridden out to his estate – possibly to avoid provoking a duel with the stranger. After what happened to him the last time Felipe wasn't surprised.

Diego had sat in on the game before lunch, and yes, he said, the foreigner named Bishop had a very unlikely amount of luck. Diego hadn't been able to spot the actual cheat, though, and Gilberto had not wanted to wait all day in hopes he would figure it out – especially since the lancers would not be gone all day.

Gilberto had slipped home to get Zorro almost an hour before. It didn't take him _that_ long to change. Had he stopped to go fishing? Felipe hardly ever got to see Zorro _do_ anything and now here was a chance and he was taking forever about it.

Diego was sitting on the other side of the tavern porch now, talking to Don Carlos, who had also left the game. Don Carlos was definitely upset…and possibly drunk. Diego looked worried.

Felipe glanced at the broom again. He could sweep out the newspaper office again...?

Or maybe he should walk to the edge of town, and just make sure the soldiers weren't on the way back early.

When he looked back at the tavern porch everything had changed. The game seemed to be ended. Several of the seats were empty and the stranger was now standing beside Diego, nose to nose with Don Carlos. Diego rose and tried to draw them apart.

"— very quick to call a man a cheat in this little backkwater," Bishop snarled, shoving Diego out of the way and reaching for Don Carlos. The old man swung and stumbled. Diego swiftly righted him and pulled him aside. "Prove it – one way or another!"

"The fact stands for itself," Don Carlos said firmly. Felipe winced. Don Carlos was definitely drunk. Not that it would have helped if he were sober. Don Carlos had a bit of a temper. He wouldn't slink away like Don Emilio had; Don Carlos wasn't cowardly or even circumspect.

Bishop drew his pistol. "Say it again. Call me a cheat."

"Suppose we just call you foolishly bad-tempered?"

Felipe had been expecting Zorro, _waiting_ for him, and still he seemed to appear out of thin air.

Bishop hardly seemed to startle, just turned to aim his gun at Zorro. Zorro flicked a hand, and with a loud snapping sound a coil of black leather flicked out and knocked the gun away.

Bishop jumped, cradling his hand. Winding in the whip, Zorro looked him up and down – and then pointedly ignored him in favor of Don Carlos. "Go home, Señor. And next time, don't play cards with strangers."

In the silence that followed, Zorro retrieved the fallen pistol, unloaded it, and laid it on the nearest table. "As for you…Returning verbal insults with a bullet? Very poor behavior. And we haven't even discussed your card playing…." He shook his head sadly. "It would be best for everyone if you stayed away from the gaming tables and kept a grip on your temper for the remainder of your _brief_ visit. Next time I won't be so forgiving."

"Senor Zorro!" the author Moreno said, pressing forward, and waving his arm. "Senor Zorro!"

Zorro rolled his eyes, but Victoria stepped to the edge of the porch, blocking Moreno's view. "The tavern is closed for the rest of the day," she announced loudly. "No, I mean it. The guests will eat supper in their rooms, and the rest of you can go home. This is too embarrassing. Zorro has had to ride in and scold you like…like someone's _mother_? Because Los Angeles can't manage a little civilized behavior?"

Don Sebastian looked indignant at that, and Moreno tried to wiggle through the crowd, but Diego said quickly. "It _is_ very embarrassing. It might be best if we all went home."

Satisfied, Zorro turned away and swept the plaza with his gaze. The door to the alcalde's office was still shut. Everything was quiet. Zorro whistled for Toronado.

And suddenly Diego was shouting and running, tossing a table aside in his haste to get off the porch. It was so astonishing, seeing Diego in such a hurry, that Felipe didn't even notice that Victoria was running too - until Diego collided with her from behind.

There was a snapping sound, like Zorro's whip again, but when Felipe looked, Zorro was holding Toronado's reins and staring across the plaza.

"Victoria - "

Diego was crouching on the ground between Zorro and Bishop. He had Victoria in his arms. They must have fallen. Felipe started toward them to help.

A door slammed. Felipe didn't think anything of it until he heard the alcalde yelling. Well, that would be the end. There were only a few soldiers left in the cuertel, but once the alarm was raised, they would chase after Zorro. It was a good thing he was already finished and ready to ride away.

Instead of mounting and racing off, though, Zorro was all but flying across the plaza toward Victoria and Diego. They still hadn't gotten up –

That was when Felipe saw the blood all over the front of Victoria's shirt. It was dripping on the ground. It was on Zorro's glove from where he was touching her –

Felipe realized he had reached them. He had no idea what to do next. Victoria was squirming, her teeth clinched together while Diego held her against him, one hand pressed to her side, the other trying to keep her still.

"No…" Zorro whispered. "How…."

"He had another gun in his boot," Diego ground out. "It doesn't matter. You have to get out of here or it is all for nothing."

Zorro looked up. The alcalde was shouting and drawing his sword. The cuertel gate was opening. Toronado was stamping and snorting, his lips drawn back over his big teeth.

"Go," Diego said again. "Now. Felipe, fetch the doctor."

Oh. Yes. The doctor. Felipe spun away and sprinted to the doctor's house at the edge of town.

**Gilberto**

Ramone led the chase himself. He didn't usually anymore. Most days, it would have been fun to lead him in circles for a while and maybe get him lost, but not today. Not the day he had gotten little Victoria killed.

He lost the meager pursuit as quickly as he could and turned Toronado's head toward home.

Felipe wouldn't be available any time soon. Gilberto rubbed Toronado down and put out fresh feed before stripping off the costume. There was blood on it. Victoria's blood –

He had had another gun. Bishop had produced another gun and shot her, aiming for him. Aiming for Zorro. Who had turned his back, thinking he had the situation in hand -

He tossed the glove aside and wadded up the mask in his hands.

Careless, stupid, arrogant! He would do anything to take that moment back, to undo that unforgivable stupidity. He had gotten Victoria killed. Diego would never forgive him.

Toronado stamped and snorted. Gilberto took hold of himself. He could not think of this here. He was well on his way to a tantrum. If he started throwing things down here in the stable….

He straightened his clothing and combed his hair. He went into the house. He called out, but Father wasn't home yet, of course. Thank God. He could not face him, not after this.

He could not face himself.

Gilberto fetched a bottle of fortified wine and retreated to his room. It had been years since he had gotten properly drunk. Temperance and control – but those didn't matter today. Zorro would not be riding out again today. Gilberto poured a glass and drained it.

Diego would have kittens if he saw him drinking like this, but, of course, right now Diego would be in no condition to care. He was praying for Victoria, or, more likely, grieving for her. And rightly blaming Gilberto for the loss.

The woman he loves….

She had leapt in the path of the bullet to save Zorro. Diego had had the same idea, but Victoria had been closer. She had saved both of them. And she had not hesitated.

That woman was a better man than most of the men in Los Angeles. If Gilberto had had twenty men with that kind of courage he would never have needed Zorro. She had the bravery and the loyalty and the brains –

Even as just a woman she had been his best ally. And he had been unworthy: careless and arrogant. Overconfident. He had turned his back on Bishop. He had gotten her killed. Never mind that Diego loved her –

But oh, Diego did love her. He loved her completely. Her death would destroy him, and it was Gilberto's fault.

Perhaps if she had not been so quick, if she had only been a little slower, if –

But then Diego would have been struck.

Gilberto drained another glass. No doubt Diego would have preferred to take her place, but no. Gilberto could not wish for that. The loss of Victoria was devastating, but he would not trade, even if he _could_ –

Diego would see that as a betrayal, if he knew, but so what? Diego wouldn't know. And what Gilberto wished didn't matter to the universe anyway.

The glass was empty. He filled it again.

**Diego**

He had had to yell at Tomas to get him to go fetch Father, actually _yell_ at him. The man had been dithering, apologizing, nearly in tears – solid Tomas, who never complained or refused a request. Only today he had just kept saying, "It was my job to protect you, Patron. Mine, mine." Until finally, Diego had shouted, "I am standing in the doctor's parlor! I could not be safer in my own bed! Go and find Father now, or I will - " He had not, in fact, thought of a threat since he had no experience making them, but that didn't matter because poor Tomas was already scampering out the door. Diego stared after him, leaning against the doorframe, trying to catch his breath. He could not think what could be wrong with Tomas. He did not want to think about the long hours it would take for Father to get here. Or what he would say when Father did arrive.

He might have stared out the doorway for a long time. The dust from Tomas's horse had settled and the late afternoon breeze was picking up when Felipe finally tugged on Diego's arm and drew him over to the settee and pressed warm fingers into Diego's wrist. Diego took a deep breath and tried to say something reassuring. The sound stuck in his throat. His eyes burned.

Felipe hugged him hard.

The world spun, but Diego paid no attention. Being clearheaded would be of no use anyway. There was nothing he could do for Victoria. Strange, how he had thought it would be his frailty that would ruin everything. But even if he were well, it would make no difference. Not now, with a pistol ball in her…

Not before, either. He wouldn't have saved her. He hadn't even _seen_ her until they crashed together just before the gun had fired. All he had seen was Bishop producing that little pistol out of his boot. All he had been thinking of was Gilberto about to be shot in the back. And then suddenly there was Victoria and that horrible little noise she had made. And blood, warm and sticky, as he'd tried and failed to keep them from falling.

When Felipe stepped away, the chill of the room descended. Diego wrapped his arms tightly around his middle and shivered a little, but Felipe was back almost immediately. He put a cup in Diego's hand and motioned him to sip slowly. It was honeyed water that didn't cover the bitter aftertaste of the heart medicine. He managed a couple of small swallows before his stomach threatened to rebel. Felipe took the cup away and crouched in front of Diego. He began to talk, but Diego couldn't follow the words at all. He was remembering how Victoria had felt when he had stumbled into her….and how she had fallen against him a moment later, the tiny soft noise she had made –

Felipe punched him stingingly in the shoulder. "Pay attention! You need to be strong now! You need to focus!"

Diego nodded dully.

Impatient and angry, Felipe shook him. "I have been listening. She is going to live. Maybe. You can't go to pieces. You have to be strong."

Oh. Dear. "Felipe…we don't know…."

"She will be hurt and afraid. She will be worried about her tavern. She will need you to be her friend." That last might have been, 'she will need you to be her Diego,' but either way the thought was a bit of a shock. Felipe was right. What _could_ be done, what needed to be done, he could do….

Diego swallowed hard, trying to picture the scope of what needed to be done. "I need to see Sergeant Mendoza. As soon as he gets back, if he isn't here yet." Felipe looked surprised, but he hurried off.

Diego checked his pulse and took another swallow from the cup. He would have to keep it down, though he had not eaten in hours and it seemed to churn in his empty belly. He couldn't let himself get sick now. Victoria had no family near….

He took a couple of deep breaths.

Mendoza, when he arrived, hovered in the doorway, practically hiding behind Doctor Hernandez's housekeeper.

"You told me once you had about four months' leave accrued."

Surprised, Mendoza stepped forward and looked up at him. "Yes…yes. I have no family to visit. And I hate to travel." His voice ended in a question. He looked very worried.

"You must put in for two months of it immediately. No doubt the alcalde is in a good mood." He gestured toward the treatment room. "If he knows why you want it, it might even improve your chances of convincing him."

"But…Don Diego…why _do_ I want it?"

"You will run the tavern while Senorita Victoria recovers," Diego said.

"_I_ will - "

"You are a competent cook and no one will try to cheat you or cause trouble. That is important."

"I am not sure I can…I mean, the whole tavern?"

"I will…_Gilberto_ will do the books. Or maybe Sir Edmond. They are both bored at the moment. Pilar knows what to do about overnight guests."

"But…will your father agree?"

"He doesn't have time to do it himself. And he can't cook." But it was true that Don Alejandro was a bit ambivalent about the sergeant. "I'll handle Father. You get the time off."

But when the sergeant was gone there was nothing to do but wait again. Diego paced.

He paced for a very long time before the doctor opened the door to the inner hall. He was smiling a little. The room tilted a bit, and Diego touched the edge of the nearest table for balance.

Dr. Hernandez came over and laid a handkerchief open on the table. It contained a bent bit of metal and several broken bits of whitish…something. It had all been wiped but there were still red smears in the creases and cavities. Blood.

Victoria's.

Diego wanted to look away. Instead, he asked. "Is that the pistol ball?" Surely it was too small and too irregularly shaped, but the doctor nodded.

"It impacted the lower rib on the right side. That is what took so long, collecting the bits of bone. No, it's only an inch or so. I doubt she will miss it."

"And…the organs below it?" Diego somehow managed to ask.

"Whole. Spared, by the grace of God. She's lost a great deal of blood, of course. And there is still the risk of infection, but if she survives the night there is a very good chance she will recover completely." He said more after that, but Diego could never remember what. He wanted desperately to see her, but of course that was out of the question. She would be asleep anyway. The doctor would have drugged her as much as he dared for the surgery.

Diego paced some more.

**Felipe **

It was just after sundown when Don Alejandro arrived. He quickly got the story out of Diego and then took charge in a way that Felipe couldn't help envying. He made arrangements to have Victoria moved to the hacienda in the morning. He moved Diego to the doctor's back parlor, which had the sort of comfortable sofa family could rest on when the patient was being treated in town. He sent Felipe and Tomas home with Sir Edmond. Even though Felipe didn't particularly want to go, he was satisfied to have Don Alejandro there too look after things.

Especially since Felipe really had no idea how to manage Diego through something like this. Poor Diego. He really didn't have any sense when it came to Victoria, even on good days when everything was fine.

At the house he slipped away from Sir Edmond as quickly as he could and checked the cave. Toronado was tended, if a bit sloppily. The costume was in a heap on the floor, which was unusual. Felipe tidied up and then went to speak to Gilberto before supper. They would have to sit with the guest, of course, and be polite.

Ugh. Felipe dreaded it more than usual. He was so tired….

And Gilberto, he discovered, was _so drunk_!

He was slouched in the comfortable chair in his room, most of his hair standing up, his eyes red and a nearly-empty bottle of wine in his hand.

Felipe shut the outer door and then the inner door (although there was no chance that anyone would hear him yelling at Gilberto) and lit the lamp from the candle he was carrying. He took the bottle away. "What is the matter with you? Is this where you've been? Diego is very upset!"

Gilberto gave him horns and took the bottle back.

"Are you crazy? Are you stupid? Someone will wonder where you are!"

Heavily, wetly, Gilberto answered, "Diego won't wonder where I am. He doesn't want to see me."

"He needs you! Victoria - !"

"Yes. I killed her. Victoria, his 'Beautiful.' So no, he doesn't want to see me."

"She isn't dead!" Felipe protested.

Gilberto looked horrified, "Not yet?" he exploded. "Dear God. Oh, _Diego_." He buried his face in his hands. Felipe wasn't sure how he would explain even if Gilberto were looking at him.

The door opened behind Felipe. He hadn't heard anyone coming. Sir Edmond looked from Felipe to Gilberto. "I assume the child knows," he said finally.

Felipe swallowed hard. He raised his chin and made shooing motions.

Sir Edmond sighed and stilled Felipe with a hand on his shoulder. "The doctor thinks the tavern owner will live. Diego's friend."

Gilberto grunted.

Gently, the old man shifted Felipe to one side, seized Gilberto by his collar and his ear – his actual _ear_ – and hauled him to his feet. "That is _quite_ enough, my boy. Failing utterly at your duty is no excuse to stop doing your duty. Let's get you cleaned up. Come on," he grunted at Gilberto's weight. "Felipe, my hands are full. Would you be so good and open the door?"

But Felipe was frozen with a dawning horror he couldn't quite believe. No. No. He couldn't know about Zorro. He couldn't.

And then Sir Edmond frowned and Felipe found himself scampering to open the doors and race ahead to prepare the washroom out back.

Sir Edmond made Gilberto wash in cold water and drink a whole pot of tea that Felipe brought. He made no sign of sympathy when Gilberto threw up both the tea and the wine, _and_ he made Gilberto dress and come to supper.

When supper was finally over and Gilberto was tucked (miserably) into bed, Felipe planted himself in front of Sir Edmond. The guest didn't sign, though, and there was no question Felipe was willing to write on paper. He didn't think he needed to actually ask.

He didn't. Sir Edmond began to speak very softly. "All the way around South America that fool Moreno told his stories…the folk hero in Los Angeles." He looked hard at Felipe. "And I couldn't help wondering if perhaps Diego had recovered so completely…I mean surely such a small village could not produce yet another miraculous swordsman? Moreno told his stories over and over…and not once did Don Gilberto cross my mind. Three years I worked with those young men. Three years I taught them…and if you had asked me at the time, was there any possibility I was overlooking something great in 'Berto?...Well, in fact, Uri _did_ ask me. I never imagined…." He shook his head.

Felipe couldn't answer that, even to himself. It had never occurred to him that Gilberto could be so _good_, either.

"Alejandro doesn't know, I assume?"

Felipe shook his head vigorously.

"You are the only one who knows?"

"Diego."

"What? Oh, Diego. Well of course. Hmmm. Go to bed, young man. Tomorrow will be very busy.

_~TBC_

**First off, yes I know it could have gone the other way. And there was some temptation to let Diego be the one who was shot protecting Zorro. Diego suffers quite a lot, though, and Victoria not at all. And anyway, Diego would probably not ****survive**** being shot, and killing him would pretty much be the end of the story, so….**

**Also, yes, I've got Sir Edmond and Moreno in town at the same time. Sorry. There just weren't enough ships to have all these guest stars coming and going solo. **


	12. May 9, 1815

In which Diego is dispairing, Gilberto fails to cope, and Felipe has no idea what to do.

**May 9, 1815**

**Felipe**

The next day was busy. Don Alejandro arrived very early with Diego, whom he promptly bullied into his bed. Then he ate a brisk breakfast with Sir Edmond, Gilberto (who was doing his best to conceal his hangover), and Felipe; personally inspected the provisions that had been made to look after Victoria; and rode back to town.

Sir Edmond, with no respect at all for Gilberto's aching head, chivvied him out into the side yard and handed him a sword.

"What, now?"

"If you are done feeling sorry for yourself." He drew his own sword and saluted.

Wincing, Gilberto saluted back. He didn't hesitate, though, when the tiny, elderly man feinted at him. He met the incoming sword neatly and advanced on the recovery. Sir Edmond laughed.

What followed was the longest, most intense fencing match Felipe had ever seen. The only opponent who could beat Gilberto was, of course, Diego, and Diego had to be clever and quick and bring his brother down before his own strength ran out. Felipe had seen Zorro fight the alcalde twice and lancers half a dozen times, but those fights were even shorter – and sometimes just a few seconds. Even the champion, Miles Thackery, had only managed to last a few minutes.

Sir Edmond was as clever and ruthless as Diego, but he wasn't in a hurry. He danced Gilberto back and forth across the garden, setting little traps and playing with his guard. Gilberto was soon sweating. The tiny, _ancient_ man came at him from every direction, working him hard and then harder – and then cheated and produced a dagger in his left hand.

Felipe gasped at that, but Gilberto only laughed and scooped up a garden rake. He wasn't defending any more, he was advancing, teasing, all but floating across the ground. His guard never opened. His balance was perfect. Sir Edmond, retreating, grinned.

Every direction he tried, Gilberto blocked his way. And then, impossibly, they began to move even faster. Felipe couldn't follow their hands –

And suddenly Sir Edmond was trapped in the corner of the garden, one hand pinned against the wall and the other hand empty.

For a moment the combatants were frozen, panting, grinning.

Gilberto stepped back.

Sir Edmond said something in English and slapped Gilberto's shoulder. Gilberto looked a bit sheepish. Still panting, they sank down and sat against the garden wall. Felipe picked up Sir Edmond's fallen sword and held it out to him. He nodded his thanks and wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

"This woman," Sir Edmond said after a while. "The tavern owner. Diego is in love with her?"

Gilberto pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Oh, yes. Completely smitten."

"Hmmm." He considered for a very long moment. "Do I need to have a word with your father?"

Gilberto sat up in alarm, "No!"

"I don't mean about _this_," he motioned to the sword. "Do pay attention. I mean about Diego. If he wants to marry this girl…." He sighed. "If she lives…."

"Father." Gilberto snorted. "Even if he disapproved of the senorita – and he does not – he would let Diego do anything he wanted. No, it's all Diego. He is convinced he isn't well enough to be a proper husband."

Sir Edmond nodded sadly. "Is he right?"

Gilberto was quiet for a moment. "Yes, strictly speaking. He tires easily, the attacks are…too frequent and very difficult. And the long term outlook is…poor."

Felipe gaped. He had never heard Gilberto discuss his brother's condition in such detail or so calmly.

"I cannot begin to say how it grieves me to hear it, 'Berto. I am so sorry."

Gilberto was still for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and said briskly, "He should marry her anyway. She would be better off as his widow then enjoying a nice long marriage to a man who could not properly understand or value her."

"Not that you are biased," Sir Edmond muttered.

"On behalf of both of them," he protested. "Really, these last two years…I've been indebted to her more than once."

Sir Edmond's eyes narrowed. "You're feeling guilty."

Gilberto scrambled to his feet. "I'm not. And anyway, don't start telling me I shouldn't. You weren't there."

"Quite right," he answered sharply. "I wasn't there. You may very well be at fault. But regret won't help anything. It's a waste of time even if it is warranted."

Gilberto snorted, nodded an almost-polite salute, and stalked into the house.

Felipe felt like he should apologize for him…but Sir Edmond still didn't read signs. Felipe made a face.

Sir Edmond only looked faintly fond. "Just when you begin to forget that this is the difficult one," he murmured. Then he turned his attention to Felipe. He looked him up and down. He passed him his practice sword. "Show me your forms," he commanded.

**Diego**

He should have been restless, absolutely _wakeful_, facing something so terrible. As always, his body failed him. Diego slept through Victoria's arrival. When he finally woke and cleaned up, she was safely installed in the back bedroom with Senora Sosa from town to look after her.

Diego hovered in the doorway, looking in. Victoria was very pale. Her hair was neatly braded. That was all of her he could see….

The back bedroom was small, but it was quiet and had windows on two walls, so there was fresh air for convalescence. Senora Sosa was an elderly widow, stern but very neat and proper. When she noticed Diego she gave him a measuring look, almost daring him to step across the threshold.

"I was wondering if you needed anything," he said politely.

"When I do, I'll tell that Maria. She seems very capable." She drew herself up and tried to look down her nose at him. Despite her height, the look was effective.

Diego found himself smiling slightly. "As you say, Senora." A veritable dragon, he thought. Victoria would be safe enough, assuming she could continue to endure the blood loss. Assuming there was no infection. Assuming that the doctor was correct and she could survive perfectly well with a piece of her rib missing. Assuming he had not missed any bits of bone that festered –

She looked like she was sleeping, but Diego knew better. She would have been given laudanum for the journey from town. She wouldn't wake for hours, and perhaps not even then. Perhaps –

Diego forced himself to turn away and walk up the hallway.

Felipe appeared. He caught Diego's arm and drew him into the library. "The sword is omniscient," he said.

Diego could only blink at that. "I'm sorry. What was that, Felipe?"

Felipe repeated the same sequence of gestures, but this time Diego remembered the namesign Felipe used for Sir Edmond: Sir Edmond knows everything.

"Oh. Yes," Diego agreed. "He is very well read. He can talk about anything. I'm glad you are getting along - "

He started to step away. Felipe caught him by the waist and pushed him back. "No. Listen. He knows."

Diego shook his head. "Knows what?"

Slowly, fingerspelling the perfect Castilian he used for writing but never, _ever_ used in conversation, said, "Your teacher, Sir Edmond, knows that your brother, Gilberto, is a fox."

There was no mistaking the content of that message but Diego was flabbergasted. "How could he," he gasped.

Felipe rolled his eyes. "Apparently, he noticed that master swordsmen do not grow in trees. Also, he knows you both."

"Sword masters do not…." Diego closed his eyes. Good God. He had to speak to him. Although what he would say –

That was when Diego remembered what day it was. "The newspaper." For a moment he froze. Then he deflated. How could he get the pages set? He didn't want to leave the house. But Victoria wouldn't want the newspaper silenced. He shook his head. "She's going to be annoyed with me."

"Send Felipe," Gilberto said, coming in. "He and Nicholas can set the type."

Diego shook his head. "I haven't written up what happened yesterday."

Gilberto held out a sheet of paper. "I wouldn't think so. Here's mine."

Halfway down the page Diego realized what he was reading and started over. When he had read it through twice he sighed and creased the page in half. "I disagree."

Gilberto answered in sign: "Because you love me, not because I was competent yesterday. It _was_ my fault."

"It is a crime for a civilian to discharge a weapon in town. _Zorro_ did not do it."

"Publish this version. Anyone who knows you will think it is perfectly reasonable for you to be critical of Zorro under the circumstances," Gilberto said.

Diego handed the sheet to Felipe. "Yes," he said. "Fine. Go ahead and lay out the pages. I'll…ride in later to proof it."

Gilberto and Felipe shared a long look. Gilberto said, "Take Tomas or Felix." When he was gone, Gilberto turned his attention to Diego. "How are you?"

Just barely, Diego managed not to answer that he didn't know and didn't care. A fight would only distract him.

He didn't need to say it anyway. As usual, Gilberto knew what he was thinking. He guided Diego into an embroidered chair and took his hand to check the pulse at his wrist. Diego gritted his teeth.

"Bad enough to have her on my conscience, Diego," he murmured. "If you get sick from this…."

"You don't even like her," Diego snapped.

Gilberto snorted. "No. She is an idiot woman who is too stupid to marry you. A silly little girl – " He stopped an looked away. "She is also one of the best men in the pueblo. When she starts talking about the rights of man, she sounds almost exactly like _you_. And she doesn't back down for the alcalde. She speaks out, and damn the consequences. _I_ may have no use for her, but Zorro worships at her feet."

For a moment the pain was so terrible that Diego could not breathe. It took three tries before he could speak. "She asked me to marry her," he croaked, aching with shame and grief.

Gilberto looked as though he'd been slapped. "My God. _When_?"

"A few months ago!"

"And you've been _hiding_ it? Oh, Saint Mary, don't tell me you married her in secret or something!"

Diego choked. "Don't be stupid. I told her no."

"Why?"

They had already had this discussion. Diego buried his face in his hands.

"Oh, Diego. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. If I could take her place…."

"Stop being stupid!"

Gilberto took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. "It's too late for that." He sighed. "Arrogant. You always warned me."

"It wasn't your fault," Diego said. "It was my idea. If anyone is responsible, it's me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got you into this."

Gilberto shot to his feet, staring at Diego in horror. Then he turned and stormed off. For once, Diego couldn't guess what he was upset about. He did know there was nothing he could do to calm him.

~tbc


	13. May 10, 1815

Everyone continues to cope as best they can.

**May 10, 1815 **

**Kendall**

Even after the better part of a month in California, Diego's newspaper seemed nothing short of a miracle. The operation was tiny and the 'staff' was a trio of boys too young to shave, yet the finished product was completely professional. The text had fewer mistakes than the leading newspaper in Madrid (which by itself was a marvel). The stories were (mostly) interesting (a puzzle, given how small the village was and how dull the life on farms and ranches were). The 'fillers' that were necessary covered a wide range of topics (science, medicine, history, philosophy, poetry and even recipes), and were often translated from English, French, or even Russian sources.

Diego and that boy of his left for town very early on Wednesday morning. Kendell came a little later with Alejandro. Diego, his hands and apron covered with smears of ink, was pulling the finished sheets from the press, fanning them up and down, and laying them out in a pile.

"Do you need anything?" Alejandro asked, leaning in the open doorway.

"We're halfway done, Father," Diego answered tiredly. "You may have one if you wish. Good morning, Sir Edmond."

Alejandro started in to the tiny office to collect a paper, but one of the local tradesmen in a clean apron trudged up and interrupted him. "Pardon me. I was wondering…how is Miss Victoria, Don Alejandro? Is she recovering at all?"

At the sound of his voice, Kendell recognized the tradesman as the boorish sergeant whose job it was to extort the 'traveler's tax' from innocent pilgrims. Alejandro frowned at him for a moment, but then softened. "She is doing very well, considering. Diego was right to ask you to take two months: the doctor thinks it will take that long before she is ready to supervise the tavern, another month beyond that before she is ready to cook."

The tradesman – lancer – winced. "Three months! That is a long time!"

"Yes, well she has been _shot_," Alejandro said impatiently. "And that three months assumes that there is no infection, and that she does not contract pneumonia or blood poisoning!" He relented slightly, then. "Never mind, Mendoza. It wasn't your fault. And it is good of you to take your personal time to fill in at the tavern. I'm sure Miss Victoria will be very grateful."

That little bit of praise seemed to disconcert him. He shifted his feet and glanced this way and that, before saying awkwardly, "Aw, it is not a sacrifice, you know. It's as good as a vacation. And I get to sleep in the tavern: the beds are very soft!" He smiled briefly and then sobered again. "But I think you will be happy to know, for the duration I am in charge, I am absolutely not allowing any kind of gambling."

Alejandro looked slightly puzzled. "I can see why you would prohibit strangers – this Bishop was certainly an inappropriate element. But Miss Victoria always allowed the gentlemen to game a few times a week."

"Yes, well. That is Miss Victoria, and it is her tavern. I am only in charge for a little while, and I certainly do not want another disaster like what happened to Don Carlos on Monday."

Alejandro went very still. "What, exactly, happened to Don Carlos on Monday?"

The temporary innkeeper shifted his feet. He lowered his voice. "He lost a great deal of money."

"Yes," Alejandro snapped, looking suddenly very fierce. Kendell was sharply reminded of the somewhat wild young man he'd known in Madrid all those years ago. "He loses frequently."

He stepped closer – closer, perhaps, than either a tradesman or a soldier should stand to a great gentleman – and lowered his voice. "Don Alejandro, he lost everything."

"Everything?"

"I cannot believe you had not heard…but then, with Miss Victoria being hurt and that fuss with the alcalde over arresting Bishop – and if I had been here when it happened, I _would_ have arrested him, right then, it is a crime for a civilian to discharge a weapon in town - "

"What do you mean he lost everything?" Alejandro's voice was hard, and Mendoza broke off and audibly gulped. "Well?"

"He put up everything. His hacienda…his land…his cattle."

Alejandro stood very, very still for a moment. Then he turned to Kendall and said politely, "Edmond, if you would forgive me for a moment. I'll be back. In a moment. Forgive me." He took the sergeant by the arm and firmly walked him across the unpaved plaza and into the tavern.

Well.

Kendall had met only half a dozen gentlemen since he had arrived. California wasn't heavily populated enough to easily lose a face in the crowd. He could picture Carlos…da Silva. Yes. Friendly but a bit rough, or so Kendall had thought when the met last market day.

A close friend of Alejandro's.

Had he actually been thinking, just a few minutes ago, that life out here in the back of beyond was _boring_? It had been one problem after another. And that was ignoring the ongoing tragedy of Diego's failing health or the ongoing peculiarity of Gilberto's double life.

Kendall stepped out of the way so the pressman (a very sturdy lad who was apparently apprenticed to the local blacksmith) could exit the newspaper office. He was followed a moment later by the two younger boys carrying stacks of finished newspapers.

"Sir Edmond, can I offer you some tea?" Diego asked politely, coming to the door. He was wiping his hands, but the ink had already dried in broad smears. It would take most of the week for the old stains to fade, just about in time for the new ones.

"Perhaps later, if that's all right," Kendall answered. He could see that there was no tea out at the moment, so they would have to go to the tavern. Diego looked tired, and he still had work to do before he could leave for the day. "I left a belt to be repaired last week, and I see the harness maker has finished setting up his table."

The belt was ready, and the price for fixing it was less than a third of what it would have cost on the continent. There were baskets for sale at the next stall. They were beautiful. Sturdy and practical, of course, but interestingly shaped and many had patterns worked into the weave. It surprised him, to find something so humble also so handsome.

He was still looking at baskets when Alejandro took him aside, led him back to the horses, and moved a pistol into Kendell's saddlebag. "Will you see Diego home? I'd like to leave Tomas with the boys until they close up."

Kendell frowned. "Certainly. But why does it require a pistol? Surely bandits don't come so close to town."

Alejandro took a deep breath and switched to stiff English: "_Diego is extorting an aquaduct out of our local government_."

Apparently, Alejandro's English had gotten much worse with years of disuse. That made no sense at all. "_Excuse me_?"

"_Diego is…ah…blackmailing Ramone into _actually _building the structure rather than _pretending_ to build the structure and pocketing the budget_."

"_Diego is – God help us! Of course he is. That boy_." Oh, no. Life in the colonies was anything but boring.

"_Yes. You'd think his illness would slow him down,"_ Alejandro said. He switched back to Spanish. "Will you look after him?"

Diego was already ready –and almost eager - to head home. He apologized for dragging Kendell away from market day. Having exhausted the charm of the baskets, though, there wasn't much left to see. After living most of his life in European cities, a frontier market wasn't impressive. "I don't mind, my boy."

In fact, the ride home past the blooming meadows and ripe fields was more satisfying than little booths filled with cottage crafts. California was amazingly beautiful. Every meadow was lush and verdant, speckled with bright flowers. The hills in the distance pastured fat cattle. The breeze was very sweet.

He tried to begin a conversation with Diego several times, but the answers were short and distracted, so he gave up. Admiring the view – and using that to keeping an eye out for any kind of suspicious pursuit – absorbed his own attention, and they were more than halfway to the de le Vega hacienda before Kendall realized that Diego was having difficulty.

The boy was sitting rigidly on his ancient mare, the reins slack in one hand and the other gripping the saddle horn so tightly the knuckles were white. His face was white as well, and his jaw was clinched tightly. He was badly balanced; if he had been using a proper gentlemen's saddle rather than these bulky monstrosities that were meant for ranch work, he would surely have fallen off his horse by now.

Kendell angled his own mount closer. "Diego?" he asked softly. "Do you need to stop?"

He started to shake his head, then aborted the motion and went still. "No. It's only dizziness. It's nothing," he said through his teeth. He was clearly barely keeping his seat. Kendell slowed the horses and slipped Diego's reins away from him. Diego murmured a tight, "_gracias_."

It had been a long time since anyone had depended on him. Kendell kept his eyes open. Now would be a bad time for the alcalde to try any harassment or for a bandit to dare so close to town. It wasn't very much further to the hacienda, but they traveled it very slowly.

In the stable yard, he called for help. Most of the men were either working or in town. The little stable boy was no help at all. It was all they could manage to keep Diego upright as he dismounted. "A couple of steps, my boy, that is all I need from you," Kendell whispered.

A couple of steps only took them to a pile of clean hay, but that would do. "Don Gilberto is here? Go get him. Quickly, boy." The stable boy scampered off, leaving Kendell alone with the young man who had been his student. "Well, Diego," he asked softly. "Are you about to die on me?"

A tiny smile. "No, Master. This isn't even _bad_." He leaned forward, lowering his head between his knees.

"I used to have to push you occasionally, Diego…ask just a bit more of you. But there isn't any more just now, is there? You are already pushed right to the edge."

"There is nothing I can _do_ right now. It will pass by itself. Really. You needn't worry. It's fine…."

"Very well. I am not worried. I am completely content and relaxed, Diego."

That earned him a small smile.

Gilberto arrived then. He checked Diego quickly, frowning. Kendell rose and turned away, giving them a little dignity. What a tragedy that it should strike Diego this way: the most gifted fencer he had ever encountered, and _such_ a brilliant scholar. It was enough of a waste to see him trapped out here on the edge of the known world, but even here there was a great deal of good he could do if he weren't hampered by this illness.

"Has he lost consciousness at all?" Gilberto called after Kendall. "Has he fainted?"

"_I_ have not fainted," Diego protested glumly. "And before you ask, yes, I took my medicine, on time, and from yesterday's batch. Nothing changed. There is no _reason_…."

"I wasn't going to ask. Hmm. Can you walk yet, or will I be carrying you?"

.

"Neither. Give me a few more minutes." A pause and then, "How is she?"

"Sleeping. The nurse says there is no fever. Don't worry about it now."

The twins were silent then for several minutes. Zorro and his – what? His tactician? His conspirator? His conscience? It was so difficult to reconcile the reality of Gilberto and Diego here in California with the two students he had known in Madrid. Diego was as brilliant at everything else as he was with a sword, and every new idea had been an exciting distraction. His intellectual pursuits had been an object of pure joy, not a duty or a great plan.

Now, apparently, he made explosives for Zorro. It was simultaneously a new height of practicality and of idealism.

And Zorro! _Heavens_. Don Gilberto: arrogant and self-centered and proud. He had seemed – ironically – quite content to rest in his brother's shadow at university. He had never put forth his full effort in an area where it seemed Diego would beat him. He never showed great passion or took great risks….

And now this isolated colony depended on his humility and courage.

Gilberto was helping his brother up now, coaxing him softly. Kendell followed a distance behind, unsure what help he might offer but willing to try if they needed something.

**Alejandro**

He stayed in town until the newspaper print run was finished and Diego was dispatched back to the house. It was unusual for him not to stay until all the papers were sold, but the poor boy was so completely distracted by Victoria these last few days that he hardly strayed more than a hundred feet from her.

Right now Diego's retreat was fine with Alejandro. What he had heard from Mendoza this morning – it took all his strength to go about the plaza and greet his neighbors and smile nicely rather than storm at everyone. But Diego was not very attentive today…and he was a special enemy of Luis Ramone, a horror of a man who liked to watch people suffer even when he didn't have a quarrel with them. Alejandro was old enough to be wary of the blinders a hot temper put on a man. As furious as he was, he had good reasons to be careful and deliberate.

So he kept his temper. He was cordial. He was calm.

With Diego on his way home, though, he croaked out a polite farewell to Don Sebastian and rode for Carlos' ranch at the best speed the roan mare he was riding could manage.

It took over an hour to get there from town. It would have taken less to get there on Dulcinea, but she was gravid. What a waste, his magnificent Dulcinea, spoiled by some…some mongrel jumping over the fence. He would take better care next year.

He should have taken better care to keep an eye on Carlos, certainly. Damn the man's pride.

Carlos' stableman – an ancient cowboy with knees horribly bent by arthritis but who could still work wonders training a foal – took the roan's bridle and gently brushed against Alejandro's arm. He made himself pause.

The stable man looked up at him worriedly. "He is very drunk, Senor," the old man murmured. "The Holy Mother bless you but – you may not have any luck."

Alejandro nodded shortly, angered not by the messenger but by the message. Drunk. As though things weren't bad enough.

He found Carlos in the salon. The room was a mess. There were papers and small valuables scattered everywhere. And also two empty bottles.

"Is there some reason you didn't come to me? Other than you being a stubborn, proud, jackass?" he said without preamble.

Neither Alejandro's arrival nor his volume seemed to startle Carlos. He looked up very slowly. "It is either the cash or the rancho by Monday. Do you have the money?"

"Forty thousand pesos? Of course not!" Alejandro shouted.

"Of course not," he said slowly, with a very strange little smile. "Even if you canvassed all the neighbors, you couldn't raise it. Not cash, not this time of year."

Alejandro closed his eyes. "We will think of something."

"What, my friend? What will you think of?"

Alejandro swallowed hard. "Something. We will think of something."

Carlos shook his head. "It is over for me. I've lost everything. Don't look like that – you warned me often enough. I should have listened to you. I should have."

"Carlos…."

"Go home to your sons. They're good boys. Put your efforts in something useful. There is nothing to be done here."

Alejandro bit off a curse and ran his hand through his hair.

Carlos poured himself another glass of wine. "I wanted to leave this place to the tenants and servants, did you know? I have no children, no family left…but they're good people, loyal…." He groaned. "What kind of boss do you suppose Bishop will be? Do they know how to treat people where he comes from? Wretched foreigner…."

Alejandro took a glass from the sideboard and helped himself to the wine. "Diego thinks he was cheating….but he cannot figure out how."

Carlos snorted. "Bad enough I _stupid_ myself out of my home, but to be cheated out of it…."

Alejandro slumped into a chair. "The caballeros demanded Bishops arrest yesterday evening; he fired his weapon in town and injured one of our citizens. It is a clear case of attempted murder."

"That wouldn't solve my problem even if the alcalde were inclined to enforce the law."

"It would have been something." But the alcalde had declared Victoria's injury an accident during a 'lawful' attempt (by the 'well-intentioned') foreigner to capture a 'notorious outlaw.' "Bishop is…hmmm, what you said before: no gentleman. He has no ties here in Upper California. I can't imagine he knows how to run a ranch."

"Lovely. He can bankrupt the employees, too."

"No, he's likely to _sell_," Alejandro said, sitting up.

"So? If I don't the money tomorrow, I won't have it by next week or next month either."

"Nor will anyone else," Alejandro said. "Almost everyone with money who comes out here has a land grant. Nobody carries around the kind of cash it would take to _buy_ a finished plantation of this size…_I_ could raise the money in Spain, and so could Sebastian or Roberto Segovia, but it would take six months, assuming the ship didn't sink."

"So?"

"_So_, he won't want to stay…so he will take what he reasonably thinks he can get."

"I don't have that either."

Alejandro waved that away. "I can get it."

"I already owe you more money than I can likely repay."

"We'll think about that later."

**Felipe**

When he returned from town Diego was not sitting in the parlor with a good view across to the hall that led to Victoria's bedroom. He also wasn't outside or in the cave.

Toronado was restive: he hadn't been exercised in two days now. Felipe fussed over him and promised to take him out later. Then he went back to looking for Diego.

He was in his room, propped on three pillows, sleeping. Felipe glanced into the corner, and yes, there was Gilberto, scowling and motioning him away.

Felipe ignored the imperious signals and, pausing to check Diego's color (impossible in the dim light with the drapes drawn), went to stand over Gilberto. "What happened?"

Gilberto scowled even more. He signed his answer out of consideration for Diego sleeping just a few feet away: "Nothing. Dizziness. Go away."

"Why? _What happened_?" Felipe persisted.

"What happened?" Gilberto signed back at him, "_What happened_? He's not sleeping well! He hasn't exercised in days! The _worry_ is unbearable!" Gilberto broke off and covered his eyes.

Felipe reached for him, but Gilberto's hand flashed out and pushed him away. "This is my fault! I did this!" His hands clawed and twisted incoherently for a moment. "I never wanted to hurt him! This is too much, and it's all my fault!" He jumped up suddenly, pushing past Felipe and fleeing the room.

Felipe looked after him, but decided not to follow. He wouldn't have left if Felipe hadn't been there to watch Diego. Felipe hugged himself for a moment, then retrieved one of the medical books from the shelf, moved a chair to the window, and nudged the curtain open enough to get some light to read by.

Diego woke in about an hour. He stirred sluggishly and sat up on the second try. Felipe went to the dresser and fetched a glass of water and a damp flannel.

"You don't need to fuss," Diego protested

Felipe had his hands full, which meant he could ignore that old argument.

Diego wiped his face and drained the glass. Then, ruefully, he offered up his wrist for examination. "I'm fine, I think. It was just a bad morning." The pulse there was acceptable, and Felipe stood back.

Diego didn't rise. He sighed and stared, unseeing, past Felipe's shoulder.

Felipe tapped him. "I think the roses need tending. I'll weed, and you can snip." It was what Don Alejandro always did when he was worried. Diego made a funny face, but hugged Felipe and followed him out into the garden.

_~tbc_


	14. May 11, 1815

_I know that this is a favorite episode for a lot of readers. Since I am not confined to 22 minutes and a target audience of age 9 (more or less) I have a lot more space and freedom to explore the problems and responses then the original. I hope everyone finds the result satisfying. _

**May 11, 1815**

**Gilberto**

He was not – quite – hung over.

Still, it was a near thing. His head ached and his mouth was sour and he did _not_ want to face Diego over breakfast. He couldn't count on Diego's worry over Victoria to distract him._ He always could read my every thought just by looking at my face_. Sitting at the same table this morning, he was bound to notice. There would be a Discussion.

Better to avoid the whole thing altogether and exercise the horse. Toronado had certainly been restive enough when Gilberto went down to the cave that morning. He had snorted and complained. Really, it would have been cruel to neglect him for another moment.

Diego had enough to worry about without his idiot brother's moodiness adding to it.

Still, even as distracted as he was, if Diego did notice his brother's lack of temperance, his compassionate soul would relentlessly pursue the cause. He would have it all out of him. He would sympathize and try to be encouraging. He might even be clever enough to think of a reassurance that was actually comforting. It was Diego, after all. He was a genius.

He was also reasonable, slow to anger, committed to his principles, charming, and industrious.

The problem was he was genuinely and unassumingly confident. He had no idea what it was like to endlessly, miserably, doubt yourself.

Zorro had been Diego's idea. It had been a brilliant idea, a perfect idea. And Gilberto had all the help and support in that undertaking that any man could ask for. And still – and _still_ – he had fouled it completely.

If Diego had been in the mask he never would have let the situation get away from him. If Diego had been Zorro, an innocent, a _woman_, would never have been shot protecting him. Never.

Never.

Diego wouldn't have gotten tossed off his horse into a canyon, either. Gilberto had nearly gotten himself killed, endangered Felipe, and made himself useless for weeks…and it was Diego who had come to his rescue and sorted out the mess in town. Diego had had to put on the costume and risk everything to make things right after Gilberto's last mistake.

Diego might have been hurt. He might have pushed himself too hard. He might have died. Why? Because Gilberto wasn't _quite_ good enough.

And now Gilberto had messed up so thoroughly that even Diego couldn't fix it. Turning his back on Bishop – that wasn't a mistake Diego would ever have made.

But Los Angeles had not gotten Diego as her protector. She had gotten Gilberto, the other one who was _almost_ good enough. Los Angeles deserved better. So did Diego.

Too quickly, they reached Oak Creek. Toronado was slowing, angling for a drink. Gilberto reined him in and made him walk first and cool down. When they finally did approach the water, Gilberto drank deeply and washed his face. Fortunately, the creek rippled too much to offer back a reflection. He didn't want to see himself.

He didn't need to see himself. Diego could see him, and that was bad enough. Diego's response to Gilberto's latest failure had been to apologize: _I'm sorry I got you into this._ Zorro was too much for him, and instead of berating Gilberto for his incompetence or demanding he do better, Diego had only apologized for pulling him into circumstances where his best was not good enough.

**Alejandro **

He heard the heifer lowing even before he saw the waterhole. The entire south end of the ravine had been flooded during the winter rains, but now the receding water revealed an expanse of deep, sticky mud.

Sure enough, when he came around the little copse of trees, there she was, complaining and stretching, completely mired in.

Alejandro dismounted and played out his rope. The next twenty minutes involved a great deal of sweating, cursing, and mud. When it finished, the heifer trotted away without a thank-you, and Alejandro paused to scrape the worst of the mud off his boots.

Alejandro closed his eyes and breathed, whishing he could think of a solution for Carlos that would be so easy.

**Felipe**

When Diego apologized for not looking over any of Felipe's school work for nearly a week, Sir Edmond volunteered help out.

Felipe was disconcerted at the idea of Diego's own teacher looking at his history and mathematics assignments, but it would have been ungracious in the extreme to greet the offer with anything but appreciation. Sir Edmond occasionally lectured in philosophy, after all. To adult men, students at the college. Having his attention was an amazing stroke of luck.

Felipe fetched his papers and slates with as much cheerfulness as he could manage.

Sir Edmond read over the work without saying a word. His eyebrows went up, but other than that he didn't change his expression. He did not take up either the pen or the stylus to correct anything, either.

When he finished he began to question Felipe, not only over the work he was showing but over random topics. It was tedious in the extreme: the Englishman didn't sign _at all_ and Felipe had to write all the answers on a slate.

Finally, Sir Edmond tidied the papers and laid them aside. He took Felipe out to the side garden and handed him a practice sword. "We will start with your feet. No, don't look down at them. Do not take your eyes off me."

What followed was half an hour of footwork followed by forty-five minutes of forms. Sir Edmond was a better instructor than Gilberto, and he had much more stamina than Diego. He was, in fact, tireless. He was also much more direct with his corrections.

Felipe was, by then, deeply horrified. He was also – very quickly – sweaty and embarrassed. And panting. And aching from his wrist to his neck.

It was only when the lesson was finished that Sir Edmond smiled. He put an arm around Felipe's shoulder as they walked back to the house.

**Diego**

The nurse came out of Victoria's room with the tray untouched. "She's not eating?" Diego asked as he rose to help her with the tray.

"Not a bite." She sighed. "It would be better if she did, but you can't force someone to eat."

Diego hesitated. "Would you let me try?" he asked.

She eyed him narrowly, and then gave him a long list of things he would not be allowed to do: her detailed interpretation of 'proper' behavior which precluded sitting on the bed, closing the door, straying out of view of anyone standing in the hallway, and so on. "Not that it would cross my mind that you would abuse your position here in the house. Certainly not! But for a young woman the appearance of propriety is every bit as important as the fact of it. The responsibility is not to be taken lightly."

Diego had never known his own grandmothers. Even Maria – who even now barely seemed to qualify as elderly – had rarely disciplined them. Up till now, Diego had never had much occasion to be harangued by an elderly woman. He wondered if they all felt so free to speak their minds when they had you alone and at their mercy.

Meekly, he entered the room and set the tray on the bureau. He sat in the little chair beside the bed and studied her. She was very pale, a reminder of the blood loss. She also had the twilight look of someone who had been given enough laudanum to make them uninterested in bodily discomfort. They would have to reduce that in a day or two –

She blinked slowly and turned her head slightly to look at him. She stared for a long moment.

When it was clear that she wasn't going to say anything, Diego said, "Hello, Victoria."

"Diego…." But that was all.

"You didn't eat your lunch," he said softly. "Or your breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," she whispered.

"No, I suppose not….but it would be good for you to eat. You need to build up your strength."

She closed her eyes, disinterested.

"Victoria…I've spent a great deal of time, well, badly 'indisposed'. There was a month when I was too weak to get out of bed, and Gilberto had to lift me….I was fed and," (no, those other things could not be mentioned) "looked after…. And for most of it…I was too exhausted to care."

She was looking at him now, at least. Her eyes were focused on his face.

"I've learned a great deal in my vast experience," he tried a small smile. "Among the most important is to…to _try_, just a little."

She turned her head away. Diego took a deep breath and let it out slowly and tried again. "And that is the other thing I have learned: You must try to trust the people who are looking after you. Right now you don't know or care why we are asking you to eat. You must do it anyway. Just a little. I promise you, it is the right thing."

"Later," she whispered.

"It seems a huge task now…and it will still be a huge task in an hour. Please, Victoria?"

Her eyes drifted closed.

"I know it seems impossible. But Victoria, you must eat, and I - "

She nodded, just once.

Diego retrieved the bowl of bread and broth and, turning the chair for a better angle, sat down again. He only filled the spoon halfway: a little warm broth, a pinch of the spongy bread. Victoria opened her mouth.

He got six bites into her, and then, with a fresh spoon, a little of the tea. The first taste of it got her attention. She wrinkled her nose slightly. "Strange," she whispered, after swallowing.

Diego forced himself to smile. "Father Benitez brought it when he visited last night. I suspect it isn't quite as nice-tasting as the tea he makes for me. It's for building blood. Is it sweet enough?"

The food seemed to have given her a little strength. She made a face. "It must be half honey…."

"Gilberto's bee hives are finally producing reliably. Wonderful isn't it? I'll be sure to thank him for you."

She smiled slightly at that and took a little more from the spoon. He was going to give up after then, but when he moved to set the cup aside, her eyes opened wide and her hand grasped at nothing. "So thirsty," she protested.

Pleased, he got most of the cup into her before she fell asleep.

Although it was a breach of conduct, he touched her temple with the back of his hand. Still no fever. Diego gave a brief prayer of thanks before collecting the tray and leaving the room. Senora Sosa only nodded briskly as he passed her in the doorway.

_~tbc_


	15. May 12, 1815

_Things are pretty bad. They are about to get worse. And then get worse some more…._

**May 12, 1815**

**Kendall**

By Friday morning things had improved at the de le Vega household. The doctor had visited the night before and determined that Miss Victoria was progressing 'adequately.' Consequently, Don Diego was in much better spirits today. He talked about the newspaper, the crops, the imminent round-up and the fiesta in town to follow.

Don Gilberto was still quiet and a bit frosty. His words were polite enough, but his mind was clearly somewhere else. His father and brother occasionally glanced at him from the corner of their eyes. Don Diego, of course, should know the trouble; Gilberto's role in Zorro's disaster in town on Monday was not a secret from him. However, if Gilberto wasn't careful, his father would soon start asking questions.

In an effort to distract him, Kendall asked Felipe a couple of questions about his current essay assignment (since there was no paper to hand, Alejandro, sitting across from the boy, was obliged to translate).

Alejandro's foreman came in then. Although he had struck Kendall as a tidy man, he came in the front door with mud still on his boots. His hat was in both hands, tightly clinched and twisted. "Patron," he said nervously. He swallowed.

Alejandro set down his fork. "Juan? Has something happened?"

The old man sagged. "Patron. I'm so sorry. There was a duel."

Alejandro frowned, half-rising. "What do you mean – " and then, "Not here!"

"No, no. Don Carlos and that stranger. An hour ago, south of the big bend. Don Carlos is dead, Patron. His man brought word. I am so sorry."

Slowly, stiffly, Alejandro sank back into his chair.

The silence was so tight it ached.

Very carefully, Alejandro set his napkin aside and stood up. He cleared his throat. "The man who brought the news, he is still here? Diego…if you would have a word with him… Find out what you can."

"Of course, Father," Diego whispered, jumping up to comply. Felipe hurried after him.

"'Berto, if you would go into town - ? I don't know how things stand there. And someone should talk to the priest. I'll…I'll follow you in…in a few minutes."

When the children were gone, he left the table and walked stiffly to the back door and out to the rose garden. Feeling helpless, Edmond followed. He did not trust where this was going. He could only remember – over and over – the moment when the news came about Uri.

Alejandro stood among the rainbow of rose blossoms, so still he didn't even seem to be breathing. "Oh, Carlos, you bastard. We would have thought of something. We always think of something."

Edmond looked away, unwilling to see this, whishing he was elsewhere, not daring to move.

"Carlos, you idiot. You idiot. How could you?"

Kendall took a deep breath. The garden smelled of morning and roses. He tried to think of that.

Alejandro sank to his knees, breathing hard.

Kendall waited. Too soon, Alejandro rose and straightened his clothing.

"Wait," Kendall said. "_Think_."

"Edmond - " he said warningly.

"My old friend, you and I….I can guess what you are thinking and why you are thinking it. And perhaps there is no one on earth who has the right to ask this. God knows…but Alejandro, for the sake of your sons, don't do anything foolish."

"Foolish?" he repeated, and Edmond was struck by how much he'd changed. "Oh, no. I won't do anything foolish. I am a much better shot than Carlos!" Three decades before, in Spain, Alejandro de le Vega had been reckless and a little wild. Angry at the loss of his brother, dreading the responsibilities to which his social position would eventually doom him, he had burst upon Madrid society a charming scoundrel. He had played up the reputation of the Colonies as being a land of barbarians, breaking every trivial rule, causing as much trouble as he could get away with (and a few times a bit more). Edmond had been surprised, when he arrived in Upper California, to find Alejandro so conventional and mature. Appearances had been deceiving, though. Alejandro wasn't _quite_ a conventional country squire, any more than he had actually been a barbarian thirty years ago.

Edmond felt a soft stab of nostalgia for that reckless young man just looking for trouble. Today Alejandro wasn't rash or spirited.

He was deadly.

Edmond swallowed. He made one last bid for reason. "This won't change anything."

"It's a matter honor."

"Honor makes a poor substitute for justice and vision."

"I'll need a second."

Edmond sighed. "You have one."

Alejandro stepped closer, looked down at him, softened slightly. "I must ask you, not a word to my sons. I need your promise."

"I will not tell the twins."

Alejandro nodded. "Let's go."

**Gilberto **

The body was laid out on a table. Father Benitez, Carlito, and the deacon-in-training that had been sent down from the mission were fussing over it, doing whatever was done to bodies.

Father Benitez nodded to show that he had noticed him, and continued his work.

The figure on the table didn't look like Don Carlos. This wasn't the man who had taught the twins rope tricks and told them stories. It looked like a stranger…or maybe only a bad sculpture.

Finished, the little priest came over and drew him aside. Gilberto couldn't help looking back at what was left of a man who had been very kind to him. "How did it come to this?" It was not what he'd meant to say, but the words came out just the same. "How could he have gotten into such a mess?"

The priest glanced at him sharply. "Don't judge him so harshly. That mankind has fallen and is subject to temptations and torments and stupidity…is hardly something this one man can be blamed for."

Gilberto felt torn. Uncertainly, he said, "Don Carlos has been gambling for years. Badly. And that was stupid and weak…but Bishop is a predator, and he is still alive. This isn't…."

"Fair?" he said gently, standing so close to Gilberto that he had to tilt his head up. "We all struggle with what is bad for us and with what we know is morally wrong. We all fail far too often. And it always ends in our destruction."

"So we all come to a bad end?" Gilberto asked bitterly. "No matter how good we are?" But he knew it was true: Diego's end would be evil, when the day finally came that he couldn't fend it off any more. That was proof enough that there was no justice….

"A bad end? Oh, no, 'Berto!" And here Father Benitez smiled. "This is not the _end_. We are fallen, but we are not unredeemed. The Lord is not so harsh as to leave us without hope. For all his vices and his pride, Carlos honored the Lord and dearly loved the world He has made." He paused, patted Gilberto's arm. "God does not only love those of us who are perfect."

It was meant to be comforting, but even perfection was not enough to entice God to mercy. Gilberto had seen what God had done to Diego –

He changed the subject. "My father will want the elaborate service. He'll cover the cost, if you can make arrangements to hire extra singers from the mission."

"All right. Tomorrow morning, I suppose…."

Gilberto nodded. "Even this time of year, yes. Thank you." He forced himself to look agreeable. "If you're free, you are welcome to come to dinner on Sunday. It might be good – Diego is still fretting and Father… I can't help worrying. He knew Don Carlos for so long. Your company would be good for them."

"If I can." He patted Gilberto's arm.

**Victoria**

She woke to a room that was dim and cool. She wondered how late in the day it was. She'd fallen asleep after lunch. Diego had coaxed her into eating porridge and mashed carrots and then read her poetry. She'd fallen asleep during that. It would be embarrassing, but sometime today it had occurred to her that Diego seeing her in bed and feeding her ought to be embarrassing. It had also occurred to her that she didn't have the strength to be mortified by any of it.

She felt heavy and sleepy and had for a very long time. She was _thinking_, though, and that was different. Looking back her thoughts had been going around in circles, twisting endlessly, repeating themselves. She hadn't noticed at the time. If she had, she probably would have tried to have thoughts….

It was stiff and slow having thoughts _now_, but her head was clear enough to notice. She was also noticing pain. It seems to have been there before, but it hadn't been important. Right now she was very aware that moving or stretching or even breathing too deeply would bring a jolt of fire through her side. Even holding still ached a little.

Had the senora really said that she had lost part of a _rib_? An actual _bone_? It hardly seemed possible.

On the other hand, she had jumped in front of a bullet. It hardly seemed possible that she was _alive_. But she hurt and she was thinking, so she must be alive. She was even thinking properly (if rather slowly) so it was likely she was through the worst of it and would _live_.

She would have to ask about the tavern. If she was going to live, she would need a livelihood. That thought almost made her laugh. Almost. The deep breath beforehand convinced her otherwise. Oh, how that hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

The old woman came over and fussed. She must have seen the grimace. She clucked and prodded and then made her drink some very bitter water. Not long after that her thoughts began to circle again….

**Diego **

He was in the library when it struck him. Between one step and the next his heart was pounding. It was loud in his ears, but the quivering pulse was faint when he fingered his wrist. Diego gritted his teeth, cursed to himself, and retreated to the nearest chair.

How bad was it? Could he make it to the well himself? No, he was already feeling out of breath just sitting down. All right. All right. "Felipe? Tomas?" He bowed his head listening, trying to remember to breathe all the way in and out….

"Maria? Felipe?" Not loud enough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Felipe?"

Felipe came scurrying in, running, worried. _Dear heavens, he's familiar with how I sound when it's bad._ He paused only long enough to confirm Diego's location and ran out again. Diego leaned back and tried to think calmly. Felipe was getting water. This was a bad spell, but the odds were good that it would abate. It would only be a few minutes now.

A few minutes.

Agh. He could remember when he could run across three fields before feeling this winded. He found himself gripping the chair and leaning forward. That wouldn't help. He leaned back and tilted his head back, breathing. He counted out the long seconds until Felipe appeared with a pitcher and a basin and a towel.

Smoothly, he laid out the towel, set the bowl in Diego's lap, and swirled the water into it. Diego plunged his face in. The cold made him flinch a bit, but when he pulled his face out three seconds later his heart continued to race relentlessly.

Oh. God. One of those.

Biting his lip, Felipe took the basin away and helped Diego dry his face. Diego didn't really care about the water dripping down his neck. He couldn't breathe. This was one of the bad ones, it wouldn't stop, and he couldn't breathe –

Felipe gently shook Diego's shoulder. "Slowly," he reminded. "Slowly."

Slowly. Yes. Diego made himself breathe completely – in, and out. All the way in, all the way out. He couldn't _quite_ catch his breath, but if he stayed in control it would be bearable.

Felipe pointed to the window. Diego nodded and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. It was just a few steps to the settee. Felipe settled him and opened the window. "It's all right. Relax."

Diego turned his face toward the reassuring breeze. It helped a little. At least it kept him from worrying that there was no air in the room.

Felipe sat beside him and squeezed his hand. Endless, miserable minutes crawled by. Diego was tiring and his mouth was dry. He didn't ask for water; he was past being able to hold his breath long enough to drink anything.

He pushed the heel of his hand against his breastbone, wishing he could just reach _inside_ and –

But there was nothing to be done. Diego could feel his racing heart, the rhythm so _wrong_, staggering and tripping like an exhausted runner. He reminded himself that he had been this bad before, that he had done this many times, that it would probably not kill him –

_Certainly_ would not kill him. He wasn't going to let himself die, not with Felipe close, watching, _no_. Diego sat up straighter, tried to breathe a little better. It wouldn't last forever. No, just a little longer. It would pass, become a memory. Or rather, an ordeal he would be content to forget….

Diego breathed.

His heart continued to race. Amazing that it could be so feeble and stumbling but _still_ so relentless and swift. It couldn't possibly go on at such a pace, but it did, minute after minute.

Diego breathed.

Father came in eventually. He paused in the doorway, then motioned Felipe aside and took his place on the settee.

Diego would rather Father not see this, not when he had so much already to bear. There was no help for it, though. Diego wasn't up to hiding anything. Father put an arm around his shoulder. "How long ago did you try the water?" he asked.

Diego couldn't see Felipe's answer.

"Go get some fresh. We'll try again. Here, Diego, sit up a bit." He braced Diego's shoulder and scooted him up. Diego leaned into the arm. His skin felt chilled and Father was warm. "Easy, Son. One breath at a time." Then, more softly. "Ah, Diego."

_I'm sorry, Father_. But he didn't even try to make the apology out loud.

Felipe returned with the fresh water.

Again with the towel. Again, the basin was placed in his lap. Diego glanced at it. He felt a bit light headed. The shock would be unpleasant. He would have to hold his breath.

He hesitated.

"Diego," Father said firmly, "We'll do this quickly. One, two," the water made him flinch again, and the world spun and tilted. He got another cold shock as the basin spilled across his lap –

The ceiling of the parlor swam into view. Diego blinked and rubbed his face. He started to move, but he felt Felipe's small hand close around his upper arm and signal him to be still. He made himself wait until he was sure he wasn't going to be ill, then he cleared his throat. "A faint?"

"Yes," said his Father, somewhere out of his field of vision.

"Bad?"

"Less than a minute."

"Ah." Gingerly, he sat up. His clothing was damp from when he'd spilled the water. His headache was like a spike through his forehead. He pressed his lips together.

Felipe wrapped has hand around a cup of water and waited until it was steady to let go. Diego drained the cup. The water was cool, and it seemed to buoy him a little. He sighed and passed the cup back, gesturing an abbreviated 'thank you' with his other hand.

"Good?" Felipe asked.

"Good enough," Diego answered aloud. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and stretched gingerly, self-consciousness now that the ordeal was over. He glanced over at his father. He was standing with his back to him, apparently studying the book case. "Father, are you all right?" He didn't look all right. His shoulders were rounded and he was holding himself very still.

"I am tired, Diego. It has been a very long day and it is only mid-afternoon." The answer was short and sharp and didn't alleviate Diego's concern at all.

He opened his mouth to try again, but Felipe gently slapped his shoulder and shook his head warningly. "Not now," he signed.

The silence was stiff and uncertain.

Father said, "You should go lie down for a while." It wasn't a suggestion. Given that he was completely exhausted, Diego didn't bother to assemble an argument.

**Felipe**

Don Alejandro had broken the promise they'd made when the twins came home. It was shocking and unsettling, and Felipe couldn't put it out of his mind. Although—

Perhaps it didn't count, since Diego hadn't seen it? Don Alejandro had been holding Diego so that his head was even with his father's chin, and he had been facing the wrong way anyway. If Diego hadn't actually seen him weep….

His dearest friend had just been killed; Felipe could not condemn Don Alejandro for the weakness. And it _was_ very difficult to watch Diego struggle. But still, Don Alejandro was so strong-minded. How had he…how could he…?

Felipe sat in the comfortable chair in Diego's room, trying to read by the light from the window. He couldn't keep his attention focused, though. He put the fencing manual aside and drew up his knees so he could rest his forehead against them.

So many problems, and he couldn't see answers to any of them. On days like today it seemed as though there were no answers _to_ see. Don Carlos was ruined and dead. Victoria had been shot and she still might die, and Diego –

Diego's misery on Victoria's behalf was bad enough by itself, but it was taxing besides, and Diego already had so few reserves –

Grimly, Felipe rubbed his eyes and picked up the fencing book again. He adjusted the curtain for a little more light and forced himself to read the book on fencing.

_~tbc (when things will get even worse)_


	16. May 13, 1815

_And we still aren't__done with 'worse' yet…._

**May 13, 1815**

**Gilberto **

Diego did not attend the funeral. He started to be stubborn about it, but Gilberto hauled him aside and pointed out how completely unkind to Father it would be if Diego passed out while rising during mass. Father had enough grief at the moment.

Diego had been angry at having this pointed out, but Gilberto didn't have the patience to indulge his temper or protect his delicate feelings. He didn't think he could properly look after both of them at once.

"It is disrespectful. Unthinkable. An old friend of the family has died - "

"If _I_ didn't go it would be disrespectful. _You_ are too frail to be put through the rigors of a two hour funeral. Oh, be glad of it, Diego. It's going to be awful…." Gilberto trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut. "Anyway, it will be crowded and stuffy; you know the windows are too small. And Father, he was upset yesterday, after your bad spell."

Diego had scowled at him and stormed off. Gilberto had not expected him to take it well, though. He scarcely cared, as long as Diego was not at that funeral seeing Father's grief. And Father should be free to grieve, not burdened with the need to shield Diego from the strain.

Strangely, though, Father was absolutely expressionless throughout the funeral. He stared straight ahead, dry-eyed and as unmoving as granite. It was as though he were very far away or thinking of something else. When the service was over, he returned home without speaking to the other men clustered about the church, and all the way home he gave Gilberto instructions for the ranch – not just for the week ahead, but his breading plans for the bulls and the sheep, his concerns about the two of the watering holes, the orchards, expanding the vineyard. It was a very … odd conversation. Perhaps this was the sort of thing he had talked about with Don Carlos and he was feeling the loss. That didn't seem quite right though: Don Carlos had never seemed the sort to have that much patience for long term plans. It was odd.

Still. Sir Edmond, riding with them, didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. He hardly spoke at all, which itself was unusual. Diego might have made some sense of their moods. He was more perceptive than Gilberto.

He did not get a chance to ask him about it when they got to the hacienda. While they had been out at the funeral, Victoria had started to run a fever. The little party had returned to find Diego pacing the hallway, fretting and quite pale himself. Tomas had already been sent for the doctor and Diego was wearing a path in the rug waiting for him.

Father nodded once, grimly, and stalked off toward his office. Sir Edmond gave Gilberto a hard look and followed him. Presumably, Diego had been left to him. Ah, well. "What have you given her?" he asked.

"Effectively nothing. She can keep nothing down."

"Ah." Gilberto put an arm around Diego's shoulder and guided him outside into the rose garden. In the wake of the generous spring rains, every bush was set thickly with blossoms: red, pink, yellow, white, frosted. Diego didn't notice, naturally. Gilberto sat him on a bench and squatted before him. Outside in the sunlight it was clear that his face was a little grey. Gilberto managed not to grind his teeth together. He said gently, "This isn't a surprise, Diego. This wasn't a clean sword cut: a pistol ball doesn't only enter, it crushes. And the bone fragments would have done damage as well – "

"I am aware," Diego said curtly.

Right. This wasn't helping. But he couldn't stop quite yet. "It was bound to fester. You knew that. But she is young and strong and getting the best of care. Most likely she will recover."

"Most likely."

"Yes, Diego. _Most likely_. Now, you must get ahold of yourself. She will expect to see you, and you must be _calm_. Do you understand? She must not get the idea that this is anything to worry about. It is only a development we expected, a temporary setback."

Diego gave him a look: Gilberto had never managed to be quite so serene.

Gilberto tried a little smirk at him. "Neither of us were such good actors then, eh? We've both improved. Anyway you are cleverer than I."

Diego grunted irritably.

"You will do this for her. You must." And perhaps you will manage not to work yourself up into such a state.

Diego sighed and closed his eyes in resignation.

For a moment, the utter misery of it overwhelmed Gilberto, and the words slipped out: "I'm so sorry. It should have been me."

Diego's eyes snapped open. He looked down at Gilberto, considering him. And then he considered him again, carefully. Gilberto stilled, fighting the urge to swallow, to look away, anything to escape his brother's eyes.

And then Diego spoke, and it was every bit as horrible as he had expected. "Victoria is not sorry," he said gently. "I can't even fault her for her choice – I had the same idea. If I had been just a little faster, if that table had not been in the way…."

"Should that make me feel better? _You_ would not have survived it."

"No, probably not," Diego whispered, "And it still would have been a good choice. That cowardly, dishonorable bastard was trying to shoot you in the back. It would have been a good enough use for my life."

"You _have_ a use for your life: your newspaper, raising Felipe, participating in a vast criminal conspiracy!" and then, "I should not have looked away. I knew he had no honor, a cheat, Diego it was my mistake!"

Diego shifted, put his arms around Gilberto's shoulders.

"It was my fault," Gilberto whispered. "I should have taken care of this." It would have been very easy to provoke Bishop into a duel, and absurdly easy to kill him. He could have solved this problem, if he had taken his chance. "Don Carlos, Victoria – this was my fault."

Diego held him tightly, held him still, held him together. Inside Gilberto was flying apart. He would surely crack, break into a thousand pieces, except for Diego holding him. For a long moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Then he shuddered and confessed, "I treated it like a game. I was so arrogant, so careless, I should have - You would think I would have _learned_ by now – I should have - "

Diego shifted, lifted Gilberto's head, looked sternly in his eyes. "Should have what? Should have _what_? Is it your job to put down every obnoxious stranger that comes to town? Are you Don Carlos' mother, to hover over him and solve his problems? You cannot do everything. And you are not responsible for every action committed in this pueblo." He groaned. "_We_ are not responsible for every action in this pueblo. Have you even thought, Victoria would not have been shot if we had not gotten involved at all? But Father's best friend would still be dead."

"You don't know," Gilberto murmured.

"No. I don't know. No one knows. We can only do our best and…and find a way to live with whatever happens."

Gilberto laughed bitterly. "Well, that is no help at all!" He knew perfectly well that Diego could not live with it if Victoria died, and he himself certainly had no right to. The angry laughter leaked out again, a raw, painful gasping that he tried to hide in Diego's chest.

Diego just held him still.

They stayed that way for a long time, it seemed. It was physically painful, the welling up of that horrible laughter. Gilberto felt himself rip and rip. His eyes burned but no tears came, only that tiny, ugly noise. Diego's hold kept him from escaping or hiding, but that was all right, because Diego's hold also kept him from falling into little broken pieces.

When the laughter had passed away and left only emptiness and exhaustion in its wake, Diego squeezed his shoulder and said, "It is horrible. But the only thing to do is keep on."

Gilberto cleared his throat. "Well, that is what I brought you out here to tell you."

"Ah. So it was…."

There was a footstep on the path, and Gilberto jumped and turned. It was only Felipe though. He looked at them pityingly and told them that the doctor had arrived.

Despite the fact that she had been thoroughly dosed beforehand, Victoria shrieked when the doctor debrided the wound. Diego, standing in the hallway beside the door, balled up his fists and went white at the carrying sound. Gilberto put an arm around his brother's shoulders and prayed. The prayer was completely pointless, of course - God would save her if it suited him, Gilberto's opinion held no weight – but he could not help himself.

When the doctor came out a few minutes later he looked serene, an appearance Gilberto was highly suspicious of. "I'm sorry, but we may have to do that again. I wish I had more pleasant news. Still, this is no worse than one would expect. The fever is not dangerously high and there is no sign of blood poisoning."

Diego sank into a tiny, gracefully carved chair that sat beside a matching pointlessly-small decorative table. Gilberto stepped forward and asked the doctor the right questions, said the appropriate thank-yous. He loathed dealing with doctors, but he had a vast experience at it.

When he returned from seeing the doctor off, Gilberto surveyed the scene in the hallway. Diego was slumped dejectedly in the chair. Senora Sosa was standing in the open doorway to Victoria's room, visibly sweaty and fanning herself, though it was not a particularly hot day. Maria, standing next to her, stared unseeing into the sickroom. Felipe was biting his lip and rubbing his neck. Of Father and Sir Edmond there was still no sign. Gilberto took a slow breath and let it out.

"Maria," he said softly. "Perhaps some tea for everyone?" She blinked at him, straightened, and bustled off. Well, that was one.

"Felipe?" The boy looked up bleakly. "You know, the roses in the garden are magnificent. Why don't you cut some for Victoria. You could fill two or three vases, cover the bureau…?"

"Good idea!" Felipe signed with an unflattering amount of surprise. Still, he was grateful for something to do. He raced off almost cheerfully.

So. Gilberto turned to Senora Sosa. "Is there anything you need, Senora?" he asked. She shook her head solemnly. "In half an hour or so, when you are sure Senorita Victoria is settled, we can ask Nuela to sit with her for a while and you can take a walk or slip off for a nap…? It has been a difficult day, and it might be a long night."

She thanked him politely for the suggestion, but gave him a stern look before retreating into Victoria's room and shutting the door.

Gilberto turned to Diego. "You should rest now," he said gently.

"You must be joking."

"I'm not. You can't do anything for her now, but eventually she'll feel restless and uncomfortable. She'll want to be read to and amused, anything to occupy her mind. Remember Father, recovering from that slice in his leg? We couldn't even keep him in bed."

Diego gave him a sour look. "Maybe later."

"What are you going to do? She is drugged. She is fevered. She is sleeping. Even if you were allowed in, she would not know you were there."

"You are insufferable."

"If that is the best you can do, _you_ should be confined to your bed."

But Diego wasn't really up to arguing. Gilberto took his arm and eased him up. "Your room?"

Diego was clearly distracted by a wave of dizziness that followed rising. "As you wish," he answered passively. Gilberto quashed a little irritation at the lovesick insanity: It wasn't just his weakness that made Diego so subdued. He was in love. It made people stupid. Gilberto knew this from personal experience, and he wasn't going to do that again. Diego was supposed to be the smarter one and yet somehow he couldn't see that he had two choices: marry her or get over her. But no, he was _pining_, a waste of strength he could hardly afford.

Most of the time Gilberto managed to be more sympathetic. He even admired his brother's courage and generosity of spirit. Today, though, it was just irritating.

Diego fell into an exhausted sleep even before Gilberto finished getting his shoes off. Well. Perhaps the rest _would_ do some good.

Diego's room looked out on the garden. He could see Felipe clutching a basket of roses. He wasn't cutting more at the moment, though. He was deep in conversation with Sir Edmond. Well. That was something. With Diego ill and distracted, it would help if Felipe had someone to – well, not talk to, obviously. Sir Edmond did not sign at all. But take an interest. Things were very hard just now….

It was a long, difficult day. Victoria's fever didn't get any worse, but she wasn't eating. When she was awake – in between doses of laudanum – she was lucid, which was encouraging, but she was irritable and clearly in some pain.

Father spent most of the day in his office, and even during supper he was unusually quiet and stern. Diego was sad and worried. Felipe didn't eat – which was unheard of. Only Sir Edmond behaved normally.

Sunday was no better. This time Diego didn't even argue about staying home from Mass. He seemed content to sit in the library pretending to read and fretting about Victoria, whose fever had not gone down. After Church, Father was alternately critical and overly gentle. Gilberto tried several times to draw him out, but eventually he gave up….

The only bright spot in the day was the arrival of Father Benitez for an early supper. He visited with Victoria, and Senora Sosa said she seemed much cheered afterward. Father, too, made an effort for the company and actually joined in conversations. Even Diego was on his best behavior.

Strangely, Felipe's behavior became even odder. He seemed somehow annoyed by something and he was - the only word Gilberto could think of was 'disapproving.' He scowled and nudged Diego for picking at his dinner. He knocked over Gilberto's third glass of wine (that had to be on purpose, since the poor kid was always so careful when he had to eat in the dining room in front of guests) and actually _kicked_ him under the table when he held out his glass for Father to refill.

Later, when everyone was gone, Gilberto retreated to his room. He was profoundly unhappy, but it was a relief to be alone. And then Felipe knocked on the door and slipped in.

Gilberto sighed. "Diego?"

Felipe scowled at him. "No. Are you sober, you idiot? You have to get up early tomorrow."

"I do? Why?"

Felipe grimaced. "Sit down. Listen." And then he froze and added, "You do _not_ know this. Zorro knows this. The Sword promised not to tell you."

Gilberto blinked and carefully parsed that. "He promised Diego?" he asked.

"Promised your father." Felipe rubbed both hands over his face. "It's bad," he said. "Your father has challenged Bishop. Tomorrow morning at dawn. Pistols."

Gilberto shot to his feet. He opened his mouth, but Felipe clapped a hand over it and he managed to choke back a shout. For a moment they stood, frozen, staring at one another. The truth was in Felipe's eyes.

Gilberto staggered back and sat down. "What can I do? There is nothing I can do. I can't stop a duel." Father was a good shot. Bishop was probably better. Younger, certainly. "Can I tie him up and lock him in the shed?" Oh, _that_ would bring shame on the family, damn it, but anyone _stupid_ enough to get involved in a pistol duel – Gilberto ground his teeth together.

Felipe made a face and shrugged. "Maybe that would help. But The Sword is his second."

"Oh, this just gets better and better," Gilberto said disgustedly. Sir Edmond's eyesight at a distance was not good enough for a pistol duel. "Oh, God. There is nothing I can do."

"Idiot." Felipe rolled his eyes. "Of course there is. You got there first. He already tried to kill you. You are first in line. You can finish your fight first."

"What, and kill him? Diego would love that…." Still, if he _had_ to…. He didn't particularly want to kill anyone, though. It was a tempting solution, not a good one. As nasty as Bishop was, none of his evil would be undone by putting him in the ground. He felt a stab of anger toward Father.

Felipe shot him an irritated look. "Dead?" Felipe shrugged. "All you have to do is make sure he can't hold a gun and run him out of town."

Gilberto gasped. "That…is an excellent point."

"Obviously."

"So…I'll be getting up early."

Felipe nodded that that was obvious too.

Another thought came to him. "Diego is not to know about any of this. Not until afterward."

Felipe nodded. "I'll look after things here."

_~tbc_


	17. May 15, 1815

**May 15, 1815**

**Gilberto**

The plan was to arrive at the fallow field first and confront Bishop before Don Alejandro arrived. Sadly, Father was an early riser and apparently eager to get to it. He arrived before Bishop. Zorro stayed on the top of the small rise at the center of the field; he could hardly stand around and chat with his own father, letting him get a good, long look….

After a few moments, Sir Edmond rode over on Caesar. "This is very odd," he said. "It is one thing to talk about _Mister Fox_ and quite another to see you."

Gilberto ignored that. "I don't suppose you could have gotten lost on the way," he grumbled.

Sir Edmond looked at him sympathetically. "I've been sent to determine your intentions."

"My intention is to finish the fight Bishop started in the pueblo. An ambush from behind is not the usual affair of honor, but I do demand satisfaction."

Sir Edmond leaned slightly forward in the saddle. "You know I have spent two decades teaching shallow young men to win at games and defend their pride."

Gilberto winced under the mask. Yes, he did know. He had been one of them.

"This is not a game, and you are defending a great deal more than your pride." He sighed. "To put it bluntly, I worry about your brother's influence here."

That was the last thing Gilberto would have expected his teacher to say, and he would have liked to hear it again, but Sir Edmond was already continuing: "His pacifism and mercy are morally exemplary and practically a hindrance. Killing is a poor first choice, but if it is necessary to kill Bishop, you must remember that you are perfectly justified in doing what must be done to protect the people who depend upon you for their lives and wellbeing. If it is necessary to kill him, _do not hesitate_."

Gilberto nodded. Then, over Sir Edmond's shoulder he saw two riders approaching, and he groaned.

Sir Edmond turned. "What is it? Is that he?"

"He's brought Luis Ramone with him!"

Sir Edmond shrugged. "A second. It is perfectly reasonable. I am sure the commandant was looking forward to the spectacle. Don't worry. He hardly brought the army with him to the resolution of a personal disagreement." He turned his horse and rode sedately back to Don Alejandro to greet the final arrivals.

Zorro leaned back in the saddle and practiced looking unimpressed. When the four men were together, he nudged Toronado with his knees and trotted casually over.

Ramone was clearly furious. He was puffed up with silent rage, a little vein throbbing visibly in his forehead. Alejandro de le Vega was almost as angry. "You cannot interfere with – "

As politely as he could, Zorro interrupted, "My fight with Senor Bishop has already been interrupted," he cast a dismissive look in the alcalde's direction, "and unfortunately while he remained in town it was not possible to resume. I apologize, but I must ask you to stand aside."

"He has a prior claim," Sir Edmond said, making it sound like a reluctant concession rather than his own idea.

Bishop grinned. "Don't worry about it, old man. I'll be happy to kill you after I take care of the bandit."

Without looking at him, Sir Edmond reached out and took hold of Don Alejandro's forearm. Don Alejandro shook him off and _growled_ his agreement with the new arrangement. Far beneath Zorro's mask, Gilberto winced.

Zorro backed Toronado up several steps and dismounted.

"You're not wearing a pistol," Bishop said with some surprise.

Zorro smiled sweetly. "Well, since you initiated the affair, the choice of weapons is mine. As it happens, I prefer a sword."

Bishop smiled. "Then you intend to gracefully execute me?" His eyes flicked over the sabre distastefully, as though it were an affectation rather than a deadly tool.

Crude, but Zorro wasn't bothered. He had rather been counting on it. "I am not _so_ inflexible. I am content to fight you bare-handed. Assuming that would suit you?" This was the part he was least sure of: Actual gentlemen normally did not fight one another like drunks in a bar brawl. He did not think that Bishop _was_ a gentleman, though, despite the fact that he knew how to wear the clothing and speak properly. He could probably be goaded into a brawl – at least, he hoped so.

Bishop wasn't reluctant at all. He dismounted and took off his gun belt. He started to hand it to his second, but Zorro drawled, "Oh, please. Do not tempt him. It is _such_ poor sport to shoot someone in the back. His reputation would never recover." He offered his own weapon to Sir Edmond, smiling sweetly and speaking politely to 'Senor Kendall.'

Together, Zorro and Bishop walked out across the bright, young grass. The ground was soft but not too soft, and smoother than the road just here. "Alcalde," Zorro said cheerfully. "Do count us off, if you would."

"Begin," he said at once.

Zorro had offered unarmed, not 'boxing.' The difference was important. Boxing was very formal, and Sir Edmond had taught him to be creative. Competition forms were all well and good, but in a fight for one's life, one took every advantage.

Bishop was a straightforward fighter. Even his feints were direct. Zorro let himself be missed four times before tripping Bishop and dropping him neatly on his rear. Bishop chuckled maliciously, as though he were enjoying it, as though he were playing with his prey.

Zorro didn't think so. He let Bishop miss him again, but this time he gave him a push as he fell.

Bishop bounced up again. This time he held a knife. Deep inside Zorro, Gilberto smiled. The cheater had cheated, and Zorro could stop playing games. He kicked out and caught Bishop's knife hand, his right hand. He was aiming hard enough to bruise, perhaps even break a finger, but Bishop was fast, so it was only a glancing blow, and Zorro had to scramble for balance afterward.

Bellowing in anger, Bishop charged. Zorro looked bored, just to irritate Bishop. The charge was intended to be an intimidating move: a knife was a great deal shorter than a sword, but the fighting was closer-in and without two feet of steel to keep the sharp little point away, it didn't matter that the attacking blade was only about five inches long. Two inches was all you needed, if you knew what you were doing. Most men would shy away.

Zorro waited until the last half-second and slid neatly to the side. He could defend with his sword, of course, but he'd trained with Diego and Sir Edmond, who were both so damnably fast that one could not depend on parrying alone. As Bishop's momentum drove him past, Gilberto grabbed his wrist and pulled. At the same time, he slid a toe forward and tripped him. Bishop landed on his face, hard.

Zorro wanted to grin at that, but he schooled his expression into a mask of boredom. As Bishop rose, he saw another opening, this time for his face. He punched left then right, eye and jaw. The jaw had not been a particularly fortunate hit, but if Bishop's eye swelled up he could hardly participate in a pistol duel….

Distracted by the idea of shifting his strategy, he made a mistake. Bishop swung the knife, and Zorro parried it with his forearm, but it was a bad parry. It set his balance slightly off. He couldn't dodge Bishop's left hand on an arc toward Zorro's solar plexus.

It hurt and knocked some of the wind out of him. Bishop tried with the knife again, and since there was no way Zorro could rise and defend in time, he dropped lower and rolled under the swing.

Bishop was angry now. Zorro was not. His head was filled with the flow – and jerk and flinch – of Bishop's movement. His eyes were on that knife. Bishop was sure it was his asset, that bit of metal. He focused on it, led with that hand: He was sure he only needed to burry that bit of metal on Zorro and he would win.

Bishop was not nearly good enough with that weapon for it to be anything but a liability, though. Zorro relaxed his shoulders, straightened, waited for the next furious attack.

It came, a wide swing meant to make him jump backwards. Zorro stepped closer instead, seized the wrist, continued the momentum and swung Bishop on the pivot of his right foot. Using the motion, Bishop's own weight, and gravity, Zorro let the arm twist. Something in the wrist gave a little bit and the knife dropped to the ground.

Bishop kicked out and threw his weight sideways. He pulled free of Zorro's grasp, but – with any luck - at the cost of some damage to that wrist. He fell hard on his face. Zorro stepped back and let him rise. He almost hoped Bishop would go for the knife again, but it was all fisticuffs after that. Like two little boys pounding each other behind the barn, they traded blows. Zorro was in no hurry to finish it: his goal here was not mere victory but to convince his opponent to renege on his next fight.

Bishop was strong and fast, but he didn't dodge much. He was 'taking' most of the punches: strength over skill. Well, Zorro let him. He let him get hit. He let him try to wear himself out trying to land his own blows. Bishop's fist rarely connected. He was getting angry, and also tired.

Zorro saw Bishop waver. He saw him gather his resolve and make a renewed charge.

Zorro stepped under it and tried to sweep the leg (again.) Bishop was ready for it this time, and it failed, but the move had placed Zorro crouching and behind him. Rising, he slammed his elbow into the tender spot on Bishop's lower back and continued up to catch him in a head lock. It wasn't the grip that inhibited breathing. It was the grip that was two inches away from snapping the neck.

Bishop seemed to sense it. He struggled for less than a second.

"Concessions," Zorro said loudly.

Bishop went very still, but he didn't refuse to surrender.

"Your word you will leave town immediately, this hour, and never return."

"I live here now. I'm a landowner."

"Oh. I'd forgotten. Yes. You will have to surrender your claim to Don Carlos' estate."

"No."

"That is your choice." Zorro's hands tightened.

"Yes!"

Now Zorro relaxed slightly and looked up to see that the others were watching. He blinked in surprise to notice that Sir Edmond was standing next to Ramone with his small dagger discretely (but not too discretely) in his hand.

Zorro took a breath and released Bishop. He fell heavily to the ground. "The marker, if you please?"

Stiffly, awkwardly, Bishop fumbled in his pocket and produced a scrap of paper. At the sight of Don Carlos' handwriting, Gilberto felt a pang of regret, but there was no time for those thoughts just now: Zorro had not known the man well, after all. He ripped the paper into four ragged scraps and dropped them into the breeze.

Sir Edmond held out Zorro's sword belt. Zorro nodded politely as he collected it and said, "Remind me, Alcalde. What is the practice for resolving liens against an estate?"

It was a moment before Ramone could contain his anger enough to answer. "If you are referring to the de Silva estate…" he glanced at Bishop, unsteadily rising to his feet, "there are currently no liens or claims filed against it."

"Ah," Zorro said. He risked a glance at Don Alejandro –

Father had his eyes shut and his jaws clinched together.

Wishing he hadn't looked, Zorro stepped back and whistled for Toronado. "Thank you for clearing that up, Alcalde - "

Over Ramone's shoulder, on the road, a pair of horses at a full gallop. Oh, damn. That was Esperanza, and only Diego could rouse the old mare into that kind of speed. Sunshine was right behind her. Just as well he was leaving. He certainly did not want to have to choreograph a greeting between near 'strangers' in front of Father and the alcalde. He mounted Toronado in one movement and rode off in the opposite direction.

It was only when he was stripping off the dusty and sweat-stained costume that Gilberto discovered his problem: on both hands the knuckles were scraped and bruised. They were stiffening up, too. Even taking the gloves off had hurt. He cursed to himself. An injury on his torso or even his arms could be hidden by his clothing, but _this_, no one could fail to notice this.

Well, he would have to be out of the house. There was no help for it. He dressed in his work cloths and brown work gloves, stopped by the kitchen to share a joke with Maria and grab some apples and cheese, and went out to the corral to collect Viking. He made a point of telling the stable boy and Tomas that he was riding out to Yellow Rock to check the watering hole and then out to the north slope to check the pasturage. That would take him all day. He could pause at Oak Creek to soak his hands in the cold water for a while, that would help some. And later, after dark, he would come home. In the lamplight the family might not notice the sore knuckles, and if they did, he could pass it off as some scrapes he got bringing in a maverick or climbing up a hill to pull a calf out of a thorn bush.

**Felipe**

Esperanza was old and lazy. It was a great mystery to him how Diego ever got her into a trot, let alone a gallop that left Sunshine several lengths behind. It was also a mystery why Don Alejandro never seemed to realize what a failure she was at confining Diego to an 'easy' pace. Well, that, at least, was dealt with. Although Diego slowed when he saw the dark form of Toronado race away, both horses were lathered and winded. Don Alejandro, turning at the sound of hooves, scowled at the sight of them.

Bishop was limping up from the other side, though, and Don Alejandro turned bad to face him, stepping in his path.

Bishop glared. Felipe saw him say, "I'll need my gun back."

As they pulled up behind the small party, Don Alejandro took a pistol from Sir Edmond, unloaded it, and handed it to him. "I find myself lacking a worthy opponent," he said grimly. It was a formula Felipe had heard before. "Besides, I wouldn't want to be the cause of delaying your departure."

Bishop limped off toward his horse and rode away without looking back. No one moved until he had passed behind the trees headed toward town. Then Don Alejandro turned to Ramone. "Senor Alcalde. A pleasure as usual," he said dryly.

Ramone gritted his teeth and said nothing.

"It would be embarrassing, at this point, if Bishop were to cause trouble in town before leaving," Sir Edmond observed.

With a grunt that was nearly a snarl, Ramone collected his horse from where it was hitched to a bush, mounted, and followed Bishop in the direction of the pueblo. Felipe realized he had been holding his breath. He leaned back in the saddle and rubbed his hand across his eyes.

Don Alejandro retrieved Guinevere and Caesar, mounted without a word to anyone, and turned toward home.

Sir Edmond scrambled onto Caesar's back, kicked him into a trot to catch up, and said something to Don Alejandro. Don Alejandro swung around in the saddle and snapped, "You gave your word, and yet here he is!"

"He did not hear it from _me_," was the affronted response. Diego quickly cut in, saying, "Mendoza came out to the house. He was understandably concerned."

That was completely true, much to Felipe's frustration. He had done his best to keep Diego quiet and distracted. With all his fussing over Victoria – who was still feverish and irritable – he hadn't noticed that everyone was gone. He could have gone _on_ not noticing, if Sergeant Mendoza hadn't arrived.

"Although I cannot imagine why you asked Sir Edmond to keep this to himself. It is such a lovely morning for someone to get shot. And heaven knows we haven't had enough of that in town lately."

Felipe gripped the reins in sweaty hands and squeezed his eyes shut. This was bad, bad. Diego was so pleasant and reasonable that you could forget that he had the de le Vega temper. He continued on relentlessly, "Still, your opponent rode away in tolerable health. Perhaps the whole affair was not 'satisfying.' Did you both miss?"

Don Alejandro spun the roan mare around so sharply she shivered and danced in protest. "Diego, you forget yourself. I do not answer to you!"

"Nor, apparently, to good sense!"

"How dare you!" He looked as though he might actually strike Diego, but they were both on horseback, and the shying mounts made it impossible even to stand still. Sir Edmond was trying to angle his mount between them, reminding calmly, "Gentlemen, please," but he wasn't even noticed.

"How dare I _what_? Give a damn what happens to you or assume you are not a complete idiot!"

"Carlos is dead!"

"Yes! So by all means, do all the same stupid things he did and follow him!"

For a moment there on the road there was complete silence. Not even the birds were calling. And then Don Alejandro spun his horse and dashed off across the fallow field on the north side of the road. Diego watched him for a moment. Then he said – almost conversationally, but Felipe was not fooled – "Was that Zorro I saw riding away?"

"He said he had a prior claim, since Bishop had started the fight with him first."

Coldly, Diego asked, "Did they finish it with pistols?"

And here Sir Edmond smiled. "Bare handed. And it was magnificent. Brilliantly done."

Diego tapped Esperanza with his heels and past them up the road without another word. Felipe cast a miserable glance at Sir Edmond, but there was nothing Felipe could say. Well, and also nothing the Englishman could understand. He sighed and rode after Diego.

Esperanza ran for only a hundred yards or so before beginning to slow. Felipe could have caught up, but he hung back as, with no urging from her rider, the lazy mare dropped back into a fast walk….and then a slow walk. Finally Diego turned her off the road and into the shade of a small stand of trees. He dismounted and hooked an affectionate arm over her long nose.

Even more slowly, Felipe followed. He dismounted, tied Sunshine to a low branch, and meekly approached Diego.

With an irritable grunt, Diego offered his wrist. Felipe ignored that and flung his arms around Diego's middle, hugging him hard.

The silence was not so bad this time. Felipe could feel the hot breath from Esperanza fluffing his hair. He could feel Diego's heart against his cheek, fast and hard but even. Diego sighed.

Felipe didn't move.

Diego shuddered once. "I don't understand," he groaned. "Papa, how could you do it? How could you even think it?"

That seemed odd. Gilberto had understood it. He had been horrified and furious, but not surprised or confused. He pulled back and tapped Diego's arm. "It was _Don Carlos_. He had to do something. It wasn't smart, but sometimes being loyal and upstanding is more important than being smart. Don't be so angry with - "

Diego threw up his arms, making Esperanza shy. He caught her bridle and made a point of lowering his voice. "Yes, _something _had to be done. Not an empty gesture that could have gotten him killed!"

"Don Carlos would have done it for him."

Diego laughed then. "Carlos de Silva was an idiot. Saints help us, he was loyal and honest and generous to a fault, but he was an _idiot_!"

Oh. Felipe thought about it. That might actually be true.

The unhappy laughter faded away. Diego just looked tired and old. He sighed. "Mother…well, I can't say she hated him. Or even that she didn't _like_ him. She was very kind, always…but now I can't help wondering if she, I don't know… maybe saw something like this coming? Don Carlos had no sense and precious little self-control. How could that not lead to trouble?"

Felipe didn't know what to say to that.

"Oh, Felipe. How could he do this? My whole life he has lectured me about my temper, about the difference between defending what is right, pandering to pride, and just venting anger…How could he?"

Felipe stared at the ground. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what Don Alejandro would do now that Don Carlos was dead.

Diego sighed again. He said, "You knew? About the duel _and_ about Zorro?"

Felipe nodded.

"Who asked you to keep it from me?"

Felipe swallowed hard, but he hadn't really expected to escape Diego's fury forever. "Gilberto," he confessed.

Diego sighed and step back to lean against the tree. "Well, that's something at least," he murmured.

Felipe was fairly sure he had misheard that. He poked Diego. "What?"

"Gilberto and I will have to have a long talk about the kind of things I need to be told, but…What I can't be angry at is you trusting him, Gilberto earning your trust."

That didn't reduce his puzzlement at all.

"Felipe for years he… I _know_ the sort of things…and the more I tried to protect you the more he hated….He was completely unreasonable where you were concerned. I was worried that someday it would escalate to the point where he hurt you or frightened you. _Really_ frightened you…."

Felipe shook his head. _No. Stop. He isn't a shit anymore_. "Forget it!"

"One of the things I worry about is you, and what will happen to you if…No, I won't say it. I know you hate to talk about that. But the point is that lately you and Gilberto - "

"We've made peace. There is nothing to talk about. Nothing to worry about."

"Made peace? You've forgiven him. You trust him. And he has earned it, I think. You aren't stupid. If Gilberto - "

"He's fine! He is trying _so hard_ to be good. We don't fight anymore. Nothing is going to happen to you. Stop it."

Diego looked at him gently. He held out an arm, and Felipe stepped forward and leaned into his side. "I'm glad," Diego whispered. "I really am."

Diego turned his head toward the road and Felipe followed his gaze. Caesar was coming up the road at a walk. Diego sighed, took out his handkerchief, and wiped his face. Without a word they mounted and returned to the road to accompany Sir Edmond the rest of the way home.

When they got to the hacienda Don Alejandro was not there. Neither was Gilberto, who had left word that he was out checking on waterholes.

Victoria was still feverish. Senora Sosa wouldn't say anything else, but the doctor was coming by later.

Diego spent the morning sitting in the rose garden. He roused himself to join Sir Edmond and Felipe for lunch. After lunch, Sir Edmond made him come outside and do forms with Felipe. That was marginally better.

**Gilberto**

He was trying to come home just late enough to miss supper – one's hands showed quite a lot while using a knife and fork – but the family had just sat down when he came through the door. He tried to protest that he was too mussed to join them, but Father pointed out that hard work was hardly shameful and the family could put up with imperfection for one meal.

Seeing no way to escape, Gilberto sat down as Maria slid a full plate into place in front of him. Roast chicken. It smelled wonderful. He tried not to show any self-consciousness about his hands.

Father was in a better mood than he'd expected. The reason why became immediately apparent. He had spent the day at Don Carlos' hacienda, helping the servants and tenants and vaqueros sort out the paperwork and assess their inheritance. "None of them are now great landowners, of course, but it's enough for each family to make a good living, and they own it free and clear. I'd say the vaqueros would all be able to marry in a year or two, but…I'm not sure they could find that many wives in the area that fast." He smiled at that. "Carlos would be pleased, anyway."

Diego turned to Gilberto. "It seems Zorro forced Bishop to finish the fight they started in town the other day, and beat him so soundly he had to give up his claim to the ranch."

"Oh. That was…fortunate."

"Extremely," Diego muttered sourly.

"We will discuss that later," Father said.

"So Bishop has left town, then?" His hands were still stiff, but the long soak in cold water had helped a great deal. Still, he waited until Sir Edmond spoke and everyone glanced in his direction to lift his next forkful of chicken and rice.

"I sent your man Juan into town to see the lay of things. He said Bishop was seen leaving, riding out alone, on the road north, just after eight this morning."

"And I'm sure he just happened to spread your version of events to everyone who would listen at the store…no, I agree. Los Angeles is much better off if that villain is too ashamed to show his face here." Father sighed.

He did not say much after that. Or eat much, either. Sir Edmond spent the rest of the meal asking Felipe questions in English and then trying to decipher the answers before Diego could translate. Some of the exchange was very, very funny, since Felipe was not used to the accent of someone who spoke English as a first language, and many signs were arbitrary rather than intuitive, but nobody smiled very much.

The moment it was polite to do so, Father rose and excused himself. Sir Edmond rose as well. "Would you care for a game of chess?" he asked.

Father did smile then, but sadly. "No."

"A walk then - ?"

"Edmond, I do not need - " He was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. It was rather late for visitors, so he waved Maria back and went to answer the door himself. Gilberto and Sir Edmond glanced at one another and followed him.

Worry turned to surprise as Father ushered in half a dozen peons. A couple of them looked familiar, but none of them were people Gilberto saw often.

"Forgive us, Senor. We know it is late. We have come to a decision and we…we…."

"It will require your help, we are almost certain."

"Don't be silly. We are overexcited and cannot scrape together enough patience to last until morning." This last was from the only woman in the party. She looked old enough to be a grandmother although she did not move stiffly. Her clothes were faded, but very clean and tidy. She did not shy from looking Father directly in the eye.

Father considered them for a moment, then said, "Do come in. Would you like to sit down? Have you eaten?"

The man who had spoken first – Gilberto finally recognized him as Don Carlos' manager – replied that they had already eaten and that perhaps they should sit down, since this was very serious business.

Father settled them in the parlor and invited them to begin. Diego, still across the hall in the dinning room, turned his chair to watch but did not rise.

"Well, we have been talking…about the hacienda, you know…." He frowned and shifted. "It is very nice, I should say, Senor. It could hold several families. But then comes the issue, _which_ families? And in exchange for what share of the land? And would it be proper to, ah, break it up into apartments, as some of the women wanted to do or…no. We do not want to quarrel over it. So Elizavetta," he glanced at the woman," had an idea and we took a vote - "

All of the delegation nodded here and affirmed that it had been a very proper vote.

" - and we have decided to give the hacienda itself to the orphans."

Elizavetta added, "The house, the small barn beside it, the kitchen garden, and the little apple orchard."

A small, rabbity man added, "The large sala will make a fine schoolroom, and the dining room will hold all of them if they use two narrow tables instead of one wide one, and benches instead of chairs."

"What do you think, Senor?" He asked.

"I – I think it is very generous," Father said, finally finding his voice. "It is an incredibly kind gesture and a great help. They are so crowded at the mission…."

"These children are not Neophytes. They should not be at the mission," Elizavetta said.

"And that is the other thing, Senor. It is customary for the Church to be responsible for such matters…but these children who were sent to Los Angeles, the community is now responsible, too." Here he paused and glanced at the others. "We were thinking, perhaps, a citizen's committee. To oversee things. To help out. The Sisters will be in charge of the children, of course, but they are two women, not very worldly, in a strange country, and it is not as though they have been given a great deal of money to undertake this project."

Loudly, Elizavetta snorted, clearly disapproving of how the project had been carried out so far.

"A committee…." Don Alejandro began.

"Yourself, because you have already helped us so much, Senor. And Father Benitez, of course. And Elizavetta, because she understands running a large household and because it was her idea….and, ah, Sergeant Mendoza, because he was with that other batch of orphans sent north thirty years ago…."

The rabbity man added, "And if the roof needs repair, he can have the lancers do it."

ignored him. "And anyone else you might suggest."

"Yes….yes," Father said faintly. "Of course. I think….tomorrow we should meet with Father Benitez and the Sisters. Yes. If you are sure this is what you want, that is the next step."

They talked a little more after that, but it was already late and Father sent them on their way, promising to collect the priest tomorrow morning and meet them at the mission to speak with the nuns.

When they were gone, Father agreed to that walk with Sir Edmond. Gilberto watched them go, then returned to the dining room, where Maria was clearing the table. "_Can_ you get up?" he asked Diego.

He sighed. "Not without disgracing myself, I think. I'm …lightheaded sitting here."

Gilberto pressed two fingers to Diego's wrist. He had time to notice that it was strong but too slow before Diego caught his hand and dragged it into the light. He thumbed the scraped knuckles and sighed. "I hadn't thought about that," he said thickly.

"It is not important. Father will go out early tomorrow. I'll go…check on the bees or go hunting or … something busy enough to explain looking a bit…tossed about. No one will think anything of it."

Diego nodded.

Gilberto squatted beside him. "You overdid a bit today? Too much…of exertion or dosage?"

"Dosage. I misjudged the balance. Not badly, though. Only a little too much medicine…."

Gilberto patted his shoulder. "Let's get you to bed."

"I'd like to check on Victoria."

"When I get you settled, I'll go have a word with Senora Sola. All right?"

Diego nodded. Felipe, biting his lip, came around and took Diego's other side. Diego swayed upon standing, taking deep breaths as he waited for the vertigo to pass. It took nearly a minute. "Ready," he whispered.

Gilberto did not let himself think about anything or look at Diego's face while they made the slow journey to Diego's room. He sent Felipe off to get an update on Victoria while he helped Diego shed his clothing and put on a nightshirt. "How long before this dose wears off?"

Diego sighed. "Late tonight. I'm fine, really. It's just hard to compensate… I couldn't quite predict….I'm sorry."

"Sh. Never mind. Tomorrow…I wish I could be here, but my hands, really it would best if I am not underfoot too much. Still, Father should take some comfort from this orphanage business. Tomorrow _should_ be better…." Maybe. He hoped. "Ah. Felipe. Victoria?"

He shrugged. "Sleeping. Still too warm, but she ate some dinner."

"See? Even Victoria is improving. Tomorrow will be better."

_~tbc_


	18. May 16, 1815

**May 16, 1815**

**Diego**

When he woke up that morning he realized it was Tuesday. The newspaper!

Did he have a lead story? The orphanage, obviously, but the details of that had not been ironed out yet. He would have to get them before he could write that item –

And Don Carlos' death – it would not be Diego's first obituary, but it would be delicate. The utter stupidity and waste of how the man had died…what could he say that was accurate that was not also cruel? Perhaps it was best to present the bare facts and then dwell on … he had bred and trained some excellent race horses. And he was known as a scrupulously honest judge at round-ups. And he had always been generous with his employees and clients.

_Oh, dear God. Father will read this! Not one thing I can write will sooth his grief, not even a tiny bit. _ He closed his eyes and breathed.

At last Diego rose, ignoring the slight light-headedness, and reached for his clothes. He had a great deal to do….

Making up with Father had better be toward the top of that list. And _Victoria_ – she would be the first priority if there was a single thing he could do for her.

Damn, this fever. It has only been a few days, but it felt like so much longer. _Victoria_ – oh, the thought was so frightening. And nothing to be done and no guarantees –

He pushed the useless thought away. Worry would not help her either. He took a deep breath and finished dressing.

**Gilberto**

Viking was no Toronado, but he also wasn't a target for bounty hunters. A second day riding up and down canyons and over hills hunting for strays was … calm, at least. There was no one to defeat. There were no deceptions. There was no need to walk on eggshells and speak carefully because Father was grieving or Diego was frail. Alone except for Viking and the occasional stray steer, he relaxed. Perhaps tomorrow he would go hunting in the north valley….take some game by the Neilson's on the way home? Or perhaps fishing would be better…?

He timed his arrival at home with sunset. As it turned out, he was the only member of the family at home: Diego and Felipe were still at the paper, Father and Sir Edmond were helping sort out the changes that would have to be made to Don Carlos' hacienda in order for the orphans to be moved in.

Gilberto took a bath, congratulating himself on – so far – keeping anyone from noticing that he had Zorro's injuries.

The others arrived in time for supper. Father was – well, not happy, or even content – but at least much less angry than he had been. Much less.

Diego nearly fell asleep in his soup, but that was usual for a Typesetting Day. His color was good enough. Gilberto resolved not to worry. He went to bed still not worrying….

The next morning Father and Sir Edmond were gone before dawn, back to the new orphanage for more preparations. Maria was in town for market day, which left Nuela in charge of the household. She was hardly the most observant woman. Gilberto reconsidered riding out, since Felipe was going into town for the print run, leaving Diego here with no one to mind him.

If he put the excursion off till tomorrow and switched to fishing rather than hunting, Diego might come with him. A little relaxation would do him good. Maybe.

He was on his way to Diego's room to check on him when there was a knock at the front door.

The visitor was the author, Senor Moreno, who was hoping to have a word with Father about Zorro's most recent efforts on behalf of the pueblo. Gilberto was completely horrified – as though Father wasn't upset enough, without this nosy, tactless, mercenary…_biographer_ revisiting the whole thing and asking for details! The only bright spot was that Father wasn't home and would not be back until late. Putting Moreno off was a simple matter of not telling him where Father was. Today.

The down side of that was that the man wanted to chat about how interesting and important Zorro was, and Gilberto was the only one available to 'entertain' him. He steadfastly ignored the habits of good manners and did _not_ invite the man in to the parlor to have a seat and a glass of lemonade. He gritted his teeth and smiled blandly and pretended to boredom rather than anger and dread. This was just unendurable.

It was Diego who rescued him. Amiable, charming, harmless Diego, who led Moreno onto the front garden and installed him at a little table and offered him wine (although it was a little early in the day), and asked him very kindly and directly if he had thought things through: "If you do identify Zorro, the moment you make the announcement, he and any accomplices will be arrested and hung. His property will be seized. His wife and children will be tossed into the street. That is hardly your problem, I admit….but if you find the answer and decide to keep it to yourself, _you_ will be the one arrested. Heavens, even if you don't identify Zorro, if the authorities conclude that you know and are hiding it, you will still be arrested."

Moreno's eyes were fairly large by now. Gilberto, seated to the side and staying out of the conversation, nearly laughed as Diego leaned companionably forward and asked, "I can't remember…have you had an opportunity to observe the administration of civil penalties yet?"

Moreno goggled a bit. Diego ignored that. He sat back in the little wicker chair and began to wind an absurd tale about a secret treasure the government was hiding (from the French) in the colonies, an impoverished traveling theatrical company, and a very convoluted larceny plot – foiled, naturally, by Zorro.

Gilberto bit his lip to keep himself from laughing.

Moreno protested the obvious fantasy, but Diego only launched into a second improbable story, this one involving a traveling magician, artificial somnambulism, and a nefarious plan to suborn Zorro through mesmerism. Gilberto clamped his teeth together and took deep breaths, but it was just so funny. His belly hurt from holding in the laughter.

By the time Diego told the story of the crazy Anglo with the myriad of traps and the hot air balloon (a story which Moreno must surely had heard before and knew – assumed? - to be true) Moreno was confused and clearly torn. Diego's stories were magnificent, but the truth was now blurred.

When Moreno tried to take control of the discussion and press him, Diego sat up, breathing just a little too deeply and looking – suddenly- frail. He excused himself and rose, reaching for Gilberto's arm. Moreno had no option but to take his leave….

Inside the house with the door firmly closed, Gilberto wrapped both arms around his younger brother.

"I suppose you think you're funny," he whispered into Diego's ear.

Diego untangled himself, straightened, and tidied his collar. He looked very smug.

Gilberto poked him. "That was obnoxious. Absolutely rotten. Also – " He had to smother a laugh and lower his voice again, "Brilliant. You are such a genius."

Diego shook his head. "Not if the best I could come up with was _that_. He won't figure it out, I'm fairly sure. But he cannot stay here. Sooner or later the acalde will make some move on him. If for nothing else but to get Zorro to rescue him."

"Next time a ship comes through….we could kidnap him and ship him out with the cargo…."

"If we're waiting on a ship, we may both be old men, then." He closed his eyes. "I am not sure at all that worked…."

"Work? Seriously, did that little performance have a point, other than to humiliate the poor man?"

Diego shot him an impatient look. "Yes, it had a point. One doesn't need the truth of Zorro to tell a compelling story. Lies will do just as well, if he wants to sell books."

Yes, now that it had been explained, yes he could see it. It was a little breathtaking, actually, just how brilliant Diego was. Also, "That's….diabolical. I mean, I could see _me_ tempting a man to lie, assuming I could think of it, but you are committed to truth, facts, honesty…" he shook his head.

"Oh, please. The man has written fiction before. Literature is hardly lies." Diego smiled. "It might occur to him that he could hop on the next stage north and write a very compelling, _marketable_ novel from the comparative comfort of Monterrey. Or better yet, hop a stage south and do it from Mexico City, where the streets are even paved!"

Another knock at the door made them both jump. Sobering quickly, Gilberto gave Diego a single glance and opened the door. It was only Dr. Hernandez. The last of Diego's triumph vanished as he waited grimly for Victoria's examination. He paced. Gilberto tried to interest him in a snack or a game of chess, but he refused.

Fortunately the examination was over very quickly. Victoria had eaten her breakfast and her fever was greatly reduced. The wound was no longer inflamed. "I think we are through the worst of it," he said.

Everything improved after that. Gilberto hadn't noticed how pessimistic he had been, until he felt his surprise at every tiny scrap of good news. Victoria was, indeed, recovering. By Friday afternoon, Diego was sitting with her reading aloud. On Sunday Father Benitez came out to give her Holy Communion; afterword, he ordered Gilberto to carry her out to the rose garden so she could sit in the sun and get some fresh air. Diego fussed over her embarrassingly – if very properly – but since worry and regret were no longer eroding his strength, he was easily able to keep up with both spoiling Victoria and his work at the newspaper.

Father's mood improved, too. For nearly a week he threw all his efforts into preparing the new orphanage. "Carlos would have loved this," he said over and over, and once, "He never had children of his own." Gilberto privately thought that last was for the best: not everyone is responsible enough to make a good parent.

But just now this effort on his friend's behalf comforted Father a great deal. He spirits were high enough that he even commended Sergeant Mendoza for kindness, diligence, and - admittedly only once – cleverness.

The alcalde, aware that the territorial commissioner was due any day, was on his best behavior. There was very little for Zorro to do, which caused Gilberto great boredom and Senor Moreno great frustration. Moreno was quite a pest in the tavern, looking for new people to talk to, trying to collect new stories of Zorro. The acalde took to mocking him a little. Not much, nothing to take formal offense at (even if Moreno had been young enough or active enough to demand satisfaction) but it was enough to be unpleasant. Sadly, despite his failure and uncomfortable situation – and this was the only dark spot in those tranquil, pleasant days – the man _would not leave_.

_~tbc_

**Yes, it's another short one (but longer ones don't get more comments anyway). And it will be a few weeks before the next posting, since I have almost caught up to myself. But at least I haven't left anyone hanging. **


	19. June 20, 1815

**June 20, 1815**

**Gilberto**

Gilberto was thoroughly bored.

He had brought a string of saddle horses in to the blacksmith for new shoes. It would take most of the day and Gilberto had elected to spend the wait in the tavern drinking (mostly) orange juice and listening to Roberto Segovia and Mendoza gossip. It was tedious and pointless – well, not strictly pointless. Gilberto was reminding anyone who happened to look that, despite being the healthy one, he was the less ambitious and industrious of the de le Vega twins. Being publicly bored and idle made that statement nicely.

He could have gone to check on the new house, but nothing delicate was going on. Adobe was fairly straightforward construction, and at this point they weren't doing anything fancy.

He could have worked on his weather records…but it had occurred to him while he was waking that morning (from a dream of clouds and mud) that no matter how diligently he worked, it would be years before any patterns emerged. Maybe more than years. His grandchildren – assuming he had any – might still be collecting wind and temperature charts from an – ugh! – second or third generation of observers every month.

The thought had been disheartening. He had known it would be a long, tedious project, of course. He had just not dwelled on the fact that no matter how fast or hard he worked, the results would still take the same vast amount of time.

It had killed off all desire in him to hurry. The long, endless wait for windspeed and temperature measurements had added to the slow, arduous wait for Victoria to recover…and for the house to be done, for the territorial commissioner to arrive, for the crops to ripen, for Moreno to leave….really, since the round-up finished there was nothing much to do _but_ wait.

Today, contemplating the unending waits, Gilberto was bored. He sat listening to Old Segovia talk about the early days of the colony and waited for the horses to be shod.

Corporal Sepulveda – armed, so he was on duty – came in and walked up to the bar. Mendoza, mid-question, broke off and looked at him pointedly.

"Sergeant," Sepulveda said hesitantly. "The alcalde wants to see you." He glanced around. "You, too, Senores, I guess. He said all the gentlemen in town."

Old Segovia put down his cup and considered. "Do you know what this is about?"

Sepulveda shrugged. "I dunno. A mail currier came in an hour ago. Maybe there was some news."

"Well," Segovia said. "Such a polite request." He rose and nodded for the lancer to lead the way.

Sighing, Mendoza untied his apron and laid it across the bar. "Ah, well. I cannot complain. This last month has been the best of my life."

Gilberto rose. "You assume you've been recalled?"

"I assume I have my usual luck, Don Gilberto."

In the alcalde's office he did not invite anyone to sit, but since he was standing himself, this wasn't overtly rude. Also – and this was unusual – Ramone didn't smile. He didn't give his smug smile or his gleeful smile or even his empty, charming smile. He asked Sepulveda if there was anyone else in town who might need to be present for a serious discussion.

"I could get the storekeeper?"

"Never mind." The alcalde sighed and his expression slid from serious to grave and regretful. False, almost certainly. Gilberto felt a stab of hatred.

"Gentlemen, thank you for coming. My invitation was abrupt and I apologize. But we are facing a very serious matter, and I thought it best not to wait. I just received this from the garrison near Purisma Concepcion." He passed a document to Segovia.

"As you know, we were expecting the arrival of a territorial commissioner. Alas, we have discovered the reason he was overdue."

Segovia's eyes narrowed. "The coach was stopped while making the crossing at the Santa Maria River. A robbery. The commissioner is dead." He held very still, not lifting his eyes from the paper.

Mendoza crossed himself.

"A tragedy," the alcalde said. "It goes without saying that I am shocked and outraged by this affront to the Spanish Crown. California grows more lawless by the day."

_I wonder how you did it,_ Gilberto thought. _You have not left town in over a month._

Ramone wasn't done. "Anarchy. Crime. We are not even safe on the King's Road anymore," he lamented. "Obviously, we must move proactively to confront these troubling times."

"Obviously," Segovia said coolly. Mendoza visibly wilted.

"We'll have to increase out patrols, of course," Ramone said. "Mendoza…I'm afraid, under the circumstances…."

"I am recalled to duty."

"Unfortunately. We must all make sacrifices."

"Yes, Alcalde."

"Until the current crisis is past, I am also going to have to institute a curfew here in town: all businesses must be closed and all citizens off the street by ten O'clock. Only a temporary measure, of course."

"A small fine, I suppose, to punish violators," Gilberto said.

"Well, certainly. There must be penalties, after all." He smiled sweetly. "Do you gentlemen have any questions?"

Segovia handed the missive back. "I imagine the situation is quite clear, Senor."

"Excellent. I will post the details on the cuertel gate when I get them written up. Thank you for your support."

Outside, Mendoza cast a sad glance at the tavern. "Ah, well…" he said. "I don't suppose Senorita Victoria…?"

Gilberto shrugged. "Not yet. She can't stand for any period of time. I don't see how she could even supervise. Father and I can take turns coming in for a few hours…but neither one of us can cook."

"Well. At least the tavern won't be open late, eh? No worrying about who to get for the late shift." But he wouldn't meet Gilberto's eyes. _He suspects,_ Gilberto realized. _He knows Ramone, and he can't pretend to _himself_ that our leader is a person with our best interests at heart. _

"Be careful," Gilberto blurted. "On patrol, I mean. Apparently there are desperados."

Mendoza's expression lightened. "Only up north. Heh. Here, we have Zorro."

The ride home was long enough for Gilberto to turn the bad news over from every direction. It was possible – if unlikely – that the commissioner had been killed by an actual robbery rather than an assignation Ramone had commissioned. In the end it didn't matter. No plot could be proven. The alcalde had gotten too good at hiding his evidence (if there were any). He knew Zorro searched his private belongings frequently.

He had not done anything suspicious in a month.

Anyway, the result was that there was no commissioner. It might be months before another was sent. Who knew what Ramone might accomplish in that time?

He found Diego and Victoria sitting – as expected - together in the garden. Usually Victoria read while Diego corrected Felipe's school work or did the rancho accounting. Sometimes they worked together on an item for the newspaper. Today, Diego was reading aloud. Poetry. Epic, rather than romantic, but still! Gilberto paused at the corner and bit down on his urge to just knock their heads together. Honestly!

Stepping back into the shadow of the house, Gilberto lowered his head. Some of his impatience with them was envy, he knew. Diego was in love, and he was fortunate enough to have lost his heart to a woman who was trustworthy, honorable, sensible….

Victoria was not selfish or superficial or devious. She would not hurt him. Or tease. Or turn away in boredom at the first difficulty. How sad that Gilberto had not been so discerning –

Gilberto swallowed. It was only envy he felt, not jealousy. He had no designs on Victoria for himself. Her temper was too quick: he couldn't admire in someone else a trait he continually regretted in himself. She was too serious. And too independent. And she was too….soft. Too delicate. Too pretty.

_Lovely_, sitting there among the roses, her shining eyes on Diego. _Beautiful_, and Gilberto felt himself warm a little in response.

Only a little, but what a treacherous, unworthy feeling, that warmth. What kind of madness was it to respond to a woman he didn't even enjoy talking to? Worse, to stand here admiring his brother's beloved: contemptible and perfectly typical. Lust paid no more heed to what was 'good' or not than it did to what was 'permitted' or not. Desire for the angel was no stronger or sweeter than desire for a viper. Just the opposite sometimes. The faint temptation Victoria's pretty face presented was nothing compared to Zafira -

_Shining hair. Shining eyes. Such poise. Such confidence. Such humor. Such intelligence. Such elegance. _

_Radiant, splendid, fascinating, Zafira -_

Gilberto closed his eyes. He loathed beautiful women. He loathed himself for responding to them more. He would never let himself fall in to that trap again. Or, for that matter, any of the other traps that were waiting, baited by that tantalizing heat.

It would always lead him astray.

But Diego…. Diego loved a woman who honestly, truly loved him back. Diego was trusting and innocent and rightfully so. He was a fool not to seize this opportunity, not to take the chance of trying to build a life with her.

However long it might last.

"'Berto?" Diego called. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

Gilberto straightened. He ran his hand through his hair and forced himself to smile and join them.

"That bad?" Diego asked, frowning.

"A setback. A disappointment, not a disaster." He tried the smile again, gave it up as hopeless, and sighed. "The territorial commissioner is dead."

Diego drew back. "What? How, when?"

"Days ago. Up north." He repeated what Ramone had told them.

In the silence that followed, Victoria murmured, "How could he have managed it?"

Gilberto laughed once, bitterly. "I don't know. Surely, he couldn't have. Except he almost certainly did."

"What can we do?" Victoria asked. "Can your father write to the governor?"

"Do you really think, at this point, that Ramone isn't searching the mail?" Gilberto asked sourly. "We could mail it from the mission, I suppose? No, not far enough. Santa Inez, maybe."

"I almost regret not following through with your initial idea….." Diego muttered.

"What was that?" Victoria asked.

Gilberto leaned toward her and lowered his voice further. "I was going to poison him."

Victoria let out a startled laugh, and then winced at the pain in her side. She thought he was kidding. Just as well.

"There is other bad news. Mendoza has been recalled to active duty. I'm afraid you've lost your manager."

"Oh," she said. "Well. Well. I have imposed on your hospitality for a very long time….and someone must supervise the tavern…."

"No," Diego said. "Your room is upstairs. You are forbidden stairs for two more weeks."

She frowned at him. "I can't be closed for two weeks."

"The Neilsons could use some money," Gilberto said. "You could probably get the Senora in to cook…perhaps three days a week. And that man Leo who has been tending the bar on Wednesday and Saturday. You could get him full time this time of year."

Victoria shook his head. "Leo is very…congenial, but he is timid. Alone, he couldn't keep the lancers in line. Or even some of the younger caballeros. And if someone tried to rob the place he would hand over the cashbox. He and Pilar can't run the tavern alone, not by themselves."

"Sir Edmond has been bored to tears," Diego offered.

Gilberto shook his head. "He has shown no interest in the tavern. I've been doing the books - "

"Yes, because Sir Edmond dislikes Mendoza. But Mendoza is out of the picture now."

"That's…true," Gilberto said.

"I couldn't impose," Victoria said. "Anyway, he is a gentleman. He doesn't know anything about running a tavern. Or cooking. Or travelers."

Diego waved that away. "He is on the frontier now. No one can afford airs here. My father is regularly covered to his knees in mud - and less savory things. Anyway, he doesn't have to cook or wait tables. He just has to sit there and let everyone remember that he is a master swordsman that even Mendoza and four lancers couldn't touch."

"I suppose…" Victoria said.

And so it was settled. Having Sir Edmond in the tavern every day turned out to be quite helpful; not a bit of gossip escaped him. He weeded out the useless tittering from the information that might actually be useful to Zorro and passed it along in a neat summary. It was amazingly convenient.

He even – occasionally – played at 'innkeeper' and actually waited tables. He did the receipts every evening. He did the shopping for supplies himself (since Leo was too timid to demand the best quality and Pilar was no good at bargaining).

This excellent state of affairs lasted almost a week. Then one evening he appeared at the de le Vega hacienda at dinner time, crowing that he had missed he old friend and also felt guilty for not checking Felipe's translations lately.

He was chatty and cheerful. He played chess with Father before supper and complimented Maria heartily on her cooking during supper, and talked shop with Victoria in the parlor afterward. Father, eyeing him suspiciously, signed something to Felipe, who fetched a pad and paper and wrote out a note for Sir Edmond. As it went by, Gilberto was unsurprised to see that it read, "Is it so terrible that we cannot discuss it openly?"

Sir Edmund blinked at that and then laughed, once, in embarrassment. "No," he said firmly. "It is…nothing, in fact. Gossip, and no reason not to repeat it. Certainly no danger in repeating it here…."

Diego and Victoria – as usual wrapped up in some individual conversation – looked up at once.

Sir Edmond took a deep breath. "The alcalde has announced a brief trip to Santa Barbara. That is all. That simple." He frowned and shook his head.

"Now?" Father asked. "With the town still under curfew?"

"Did he say why?" Gilberto asked.

"He said…a meeting on law and order. Something about all the commanders in the region. To deal with the current…crime wave and social unrest."

Softly, Diego said, "Los Angeles has no more unrest now than it did last year or the year before that."

"And hardly any crime," Gilberto added a bit indignantly. _He_ was the one who chased the bandits away, after all.

For just a moment a tiny smile flickered across Sir Edmond's face. "Unless you count Zorro," he murmured. "But here is what is bothering me. Apparently the territory is so dangerous that a government official was robbed and murdered just a few weeks ago less than 100 miles from here….and yet Luis Ramone is riding out – a full day's ride in open country – with no escort. No, he is not taking any of the lancers with him!" He shot an apologetic look at the twins: clearly he would rather have had this conversation alone with them.

Gilberto was glad, though, that he hadn't waited. "When is he leaving?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"Alone," Father said. "So either he knows for a fact there is no real danger…or what he is doing is such a great secret that he dares not risk an escort seeing it, even if that puts him in great danger."

No one said anything. Diego stood up and began to pace back and forth across the open area separating the library from the parlor.

"What more can he do to us?" Victoria asked softly. "Sooner or later there must be a limit to his power."

"You know…" Gilberto said carefully. "We have friends in Santa Barbara. I could ride out tomorrow, pay them a visit. Perhaps it _is_ a meeting of the regional authorities…?"

Father started to shake his head. Diego stopped pacing and said – quickly before Father settled on a refusal – "He could take a letter to mail from there. More than one: to the governor. To the king."

The effect was not quite what Diego had probably been hoping for. Father stood up. "Not Gilberto. I will ride to Santa Barbara. I'll take one of those ugly lambs, a gift for the Christobal baby. No one will think anything of it, Don Luis has been asking me to sell one. So has everyone else."

"Father, I really think - "

"No, Berto. It is decided. I will go and see what is going on in Santa Barbara."

Gilberto ground his teeth together. "Take Felix and Tomas, at least!" he said. Damn. It would be another 'hunting trip,' or maybe an inspection of the line shacks. Something. Zorro would have to shadow Father all the way to Santa Barbara.

~tbc


	20. June 29, 1815

**June 29, 1815**

**Thursday**

Victoria's hand on his arm was not there for the sake of good manners or affection. The injury to her rib and the overly-tight corset that shored up the damage made movement slow and balance uncertain. She didn't twist or bend at all. The shifting weight of her walk was uneven.

Slowly, persistently, they walked loops around the rose garden. Diego was very much aware that he should _not_ be thinking about Victoria's supporting… garments, but he couldn't forget her structure any more than he could that of a kite or the new house in town. He knew enough anatomy to know how ribs were supposed to work. As the bone healed the pain diminished, but the damaged tissue around it wouldn't only have to restore itself. It would have to grow stronger to compensate for the lost bone.

Victoria was plodding forward, her jaw tight, her hand clamped on Diego's arm; she leaned on him, pushing onward, trying to speed the healing, demanding her body do _more_. Diego angled them toward the bench.

"Oh, no," she protested. "Once more around."

Diego sighed inwardly. "Victoria, I dislike quarrelling with you."

She opened her mouth, shut it into a frown, and allowed him to lead her to the bench. Sitting was a slow and awkward process, but once down she braced one hand on the bench and sighed slightly.

Diego sat beside her. When they had first started taking these walks they had been slow and awkward and short but pleasant. Victoria had been delighted to get out of the sickroom and greatly encouraged that she was well enough to do it.

All that had changed about a week ago. Victoria now seemed grimly determined to race around the garden until she was all but staggering against Diego's arm. "You can't hurry the recovery, you know," he said casually. "It takes as long as it takes."

She nodded stiffly and stared at a fading yellow blossom growing directly across from the bench.

Diego tried again. "I realize it is very frustrating. And dull. I do - "

She interrupted: "Yes, Diego. I know you understand. I admit you are much more graceful about it than I. I just - " She broke off abruptly and looked away. She was angry, he thought. Or perhaps afraid. He had assumed her tension had been from some pain…or perhaps the strain of maintaining her posture….but no. No.

After a few moments he coaxed, "More 'graceful about _it_.' More graceful about…limitation? Weakness?"

She winced slightly, shooting him an unhappy glance.

"Victoria?"

"I can't stay here forever," she said, almost pleading. "My _tavern_. My…everything." She shook her head. "Everyone has been so kind, but really…."

"You won't stay here forever. You'll just stay long enough. It isn't even an imposition. We easily have the room. And as for your tavern, it is in good hands. It is whole, reputable, and still profitable, despite the fact that you are paying people to do things you usually do yourself."

She inclined her head a bit. The gesture probably would have been a shrug, if she had been able to move her torso.

"There isn't any need to rush the recovery. And you will only hurt yourself if you try."

"As usual, you are very reasonable. But you do not understand. You have…."

"I have what?" he asked.

"You have…family." That last came out very softly.

"Victoria…."

"Oh, I realize. I have friends. And very kind neighbors. And excellent, _loyal_ employees. I have nothing to worry about and no reason to explain…but…."

"You do have friends," Diego repeated.

Another nod that wanted to be a shrug. "I know. I just…I was so proud of myself. Running the business alone, and so young when I started, and doing so _well_ with it."

"There is no question of that," Diego said.

"Pride." She rolled her eyes. "And then I get _shot_ and – and here I am alone. My brothers – Oh, Diego, I understand why they left, really I do. And it isn't like I want to say I need them, or anyone, but lately I have been very…helpless. Yes, helpless. And I was very lucky to have Mendoza's help, and Pilar, and Senora Neilson and _your_ whole family…"

Diego winced, imagining it. "When I am ill _I_ have my whole family," he said. "And you must feel very…."

"Alone," she finished.

"I was going to suggest 'vulnerable.'"

She softened slightly. "Well, obviously. Hmm. It wasn't until Mendoza was recalled that I really noticed it. It was so easy before that."

"And yet," Diego observed, "you are safe and recovering. The tavern is fine. You may feel alone and afraid, but the fact is, you _have_ managed. You have hired people to do what you normally do…and things have not fallen apart. Oh, I don't doubt things run more smoothly when you supervise them yourself, but you have _managed_. Even with all this, you have managed."

"You make me sound very…capable." She frowned. "I may only be lucky."

"Luck, blessing, fate," Diego waved that away. "There is no controlling any of it. Luck can take everything away." He didn't mean to go on, but the words came out anyway. "That Autumn in Madrid… most of our class at the University got sick. _I_ was the only one to be turned into an invalid. On the other hand, a year or so after I left dozens of students were rounded up by the government for sedition. Who can say? If I think about luck too long it terrifies me."

"Oh," she said.

"You do have friends, Victoria. That isn't a matter of luck. You have been a good friend yourself. That is how it happened. God knows we have relied upon you more than once."

She nodded, remembering.

Diego sighed. "Don't rush. Please. Just recover. Hurting yourself will only slow things down."

They sat in the shade for a while. When Diego stood up and offered her his arm, Victoria did not insist on another frantic lap around the garden, but let him guide her inside for a rest before lunch.

Left to himself, Diego went down to the cave and set about checking over his little stockpile of chemicals. He counted small bags and jars and made notes about what was low and what needed to be used quickly because it was going off. He didn't let himself look at the empty stall or wonder what Zorro and Toronado were doing.

Father had left for Santa Barbara the previous morning. Gilberto had left, too, as Zorro. The plan was to shadow Father's party from a distance and make sure it arrived safely. Once at the Cristobal place they would surely be fine.

Probably even without Zorro's guardianship they would be fine on the journey. Probably.

The alcalde, after all, was not expected to leave until today. And _he_ was traveling alone.. And even if bandits were attacking travelers to the north, there were no roving gangs of hard men so near Los Angeles.

Father's trip had probably been uneventful. He was probably admiring the new baby and drinking nice wine right now. Probably, Zorro was already on his way home. He might get in late tonight.

There was probably nothing to worry about.

Diego finished his sorting and tidying in time for lunch, which left the entire afternoon to worry in. He decided to ride into town to check on how the type clearing was going. He had been neglecting the paper lately, at least the parts that required him to be present in the newspaper office. He had only gone in to proof the page on Tuesday and left as soon as the pressing had been completed on Wednesday. Really, he had left too much of the work to the boys….

Perhaps an extra few pesos for each of them this week. They had done good work –

_Perhaps_ less time fussing over Victoria and more attention to his work. He had no claim on Victoria, after all. These last few weeks, spending so much time in her company, it was easy to forget that…easy to just enjoy her companionship. And it was so hard not to complete the thought that he could _give_ her a family. In-laws, at least. Not as good as a husband or children, but Father and Gilberto could be relied on to look after Victoria after Diego was –

No. He was not finishing this thought. He had no right to be tempted by this idea. Victoria did not need rich and dutiful in-laws to 'look after' her. She could _look after_ herself. She was not a dependent sort of woman. She needed a husband. A real husband. Someone she could grow old with. Someone who could give her children.

Restless, worried, frustrated, disappointed with himself, and full of regret, he rode into the pueblo.

Felipe and Nicholas were cheerful and diligent, of course. They weren't finished yet, though, because Felipe had tripped and spilled a tray of _bedonia nine point_, and it had taken them an hour to sort out the mess of tiny lead letters. Five items were still in the plates. Diego was just as happy for the work to keep him busy. There was little room for thought when absorbed in the tedious work of plucking and sorting little backwards letters, undoing stories, word after word….

**Kendall**

He fixed the afternoon tray for the newspaper office himself. Playing at innkeeper was much more fun then he'd expected. It was an enticing, romantic notion, taking such a central role in life here on the frontier. At the pub you heard everything, knew everything, met the most amazing people (mostly grubby people of low birth who worked hard and told startling stories). It was wonderful.

He had to put up with Moreno's inane chatter; the man was living upstairs, after all. That was the only low point.

Kendall was almost humming as he laid out the snack for the news crew. Those two children could run most of the newspaper by themselves. Oh, perhaps not decide what to write or how, but at least they could manage the operations. Nicholas the – _neophyte_, _Indian_ – because the word _savage_ suddenly made Kendall feel a little ill - spoke Spanish with less accent than Kendall did himself, and his grammar was perfect. His hand to typeset was swift and nearly errorless. He had already written a few minor items on his own, and if the result was nothing amazing, well, Kendall had seen worse in city newspapers in Europe.

As for Felipe, the boy was mute and had been deaf as well for most of his life. Kendall had assumed he would be rather slow (yes, Diego had often bragged on the child he'd missed so much while in Madrid, but Kendall had assumed that fondness had clouded his judgment); without the spoken word there could be no intellect, after all. Obviously. Or, in retrospect, obviously _not_.

The first set of assignments Diego has asked him to mark (and the fact that they were so ambitious should have been a clue, shouldn't it?) Kendall had assumed the child had simply not understood the source material he was discussing. When asked, though, Felipe returned clear, specific answers about the facts and arguments in question. His responses were unusual because his thoughts were original, but they were not lacking.

Felipe's presentation was modest and straightforward rather than arrogant or pretentious, which was a refreshing change from some of the more pompous essays that had crossed his desk in Madrid. Even Gilberto, occasionally, could be irritatingly self-important. Felipe confronted each issue and analyzed it, picked it apart from the most basic assumptions at its base, and questioned everything honestly and without affectation or self-promotion. Felipe – clearly Diego had never told him he was unusually bright. Given the child's shyness and unwillingness to draw attention to himself, that may well have been a deliberate choice on Diego's part.

The only flaw (aside from his swordsmanship, which was no better than average) was that sometimes – rarely - it took the boy quite a few convoluted sentences to approach an idea, as though the precise word he searched for alluded him. And why not? Kendall suspected he thought in gestures rather than verbal Spanish.

All in all, Felipe was exactly as intelligent and promising as Diego had claimed. (Fond or not, when was Diego ever wrong? Kendall should have known better.) And now Diego was priming these two young men – these two unimportant, socially invisible young men – for running a newspaper. And in another five or ten years, there was no doubt they could do it.

It was not likely Diego would live long enough to see it.

_My most promising student, a brave and intelligent and just young man…_That was the worst part of coming to Los Angelos. _ I have traveled halfway across the world to see his decline…._

Kendall did not allow that line of thought to continue. Diego was not dead yet, and worrying about it would not help anything.

And here in Los Angeles there were so many matters that could be helped: 'Berto and his mad fight against tyranny, the two boys who were doing the work of adult men on the local newspaper, the cozy little inn Kendall was looking after, Alejandro and his somewhat risky mission to the north…. Yes, enough to worry about.

Kendall straightened his apron, took a deep breath, and gathered up the finished tray.

Outside the weather was sunny and warm. California weather was excellent compared even to Spain (compared to England, it was Eden). The store keeper was sweeping his porch. Two lancers on punishment duty were tidying up the plaza. A peasant woman – pleasantly picturesque – was drawing water from the fountain.

Of course, the snake in this paradise was the government. It was enough to make a man long for democracy, not that that was any guarantee of either peace of justice: politics was how you got power, no matter what system you used to do it. And men who wanted power so often wanted to use it to enrich and aggrandize themselves….

Diego was wiping down the plates when Kendall reached the newspaper office. Felipe and Nicholas were oiling the press. All three of them were ink-smudged. Nicholas was relating some story from the mission involving a group of young men competing to catch a 'monstrous' trout from the stream. Diego was laughing and Felipe wore the small, thoughtful smile that seemed to serve as his laughter.

Catching sight of Kendall, Diego turned abruptly and blinked down at him in surprise. "My goodness," he said.

Kendall set the tray on the desk. "Some difficulty, my boy?"

Diego opened his mouth, shut it again. "You've brought tea," he protested weakly.

With exaggerated patience, Kendall answered, "The newspaper has a standing order. And you are an excellent customer, paying in advance each month without fail." He smothered a smile. "I _can_ manage to carry a tray across the plaza. My balance is quite good, if you recall."

"I didn't expect you to … take to the role with so much…enthusiasm."

Really, his confusion was quite funny. "Oh, don't worry. I didn't cook anything. The cakes won't poison you."

"Yes, but…." Diego gestured at the tray and shrugged.

The conversation was interrupted as a lancer dashed past the open door in a frantic haste, his little accoutrements clattering as he ran. Abandoning his bemusement at Kendall's transformation into a tradesman, Diego went to the doorway and looked out. "We seem to have a visitor - " Abruptly he pulled back. "Well, that _is_ unexpected. The alcalde has returned."

"Really?" Kendall stepped over and peeked out the door. Luis Ramone was dismounting in the plaza.

Diego reached out and nudged him back. "It's best you stay out of his way." He casually stepped outside – and then had to skip out of the way to avoid being run over by the – as usual – careless and clumsy sergeant who was scurrying out to greet his superior.

Kendall moved into the doorway and leaned against the lintel. Ramone was watering his horse at the public watering trough. He looked up mildly as the sergeant stumbled to a stop before him. "Alcalde! Is – Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? No, not at all." He smiled pleasantly. "I decided not to go." He glanced around. A couple of lancers, the little priest, the drayage man from San Pedro, two peasants, and Diego were now looking on. To Kendall the bystanders looked curious but also a bit worried: the alcalde was known to be unpredictable and vindictive. People tried to keep out of his way (a worthy goal, but hard to accomplish when the man was not where he announced he would be).

The alcalde's pleasant smile turned expansive and charming. "I had a revelation," he said loudly, "Like Saint Paul in the desert. My place is here, with my people. In these difficult times, how can I justify frittering away my time with useless bureaucrats who talk and do nothing."

"Commendable sentiment, Alcalde," Diego said. "But I was rather hoping you would have some interesting news from the meeting to report in the paper." Diego was smiling as well, perfectly correct and polite as he always was when addressing his enemy.

Ramone turned toward Diego, considered for a moment, and said, "I'm sure there would have been nothing of interest. Now. Sergeant, if you would take this into my office," he lifted off the saddlebags. "And if you would be so kind as to see to my horse," he handed the reins to the nearest lancer, "I think I will…get something cool to drink." He strolled off to the tavern, nodding politely to everyone he passed and looking around the plaza with every appearance of satisfaction.

Victoria's barman Leo was always put off by the alcalde – very timid man, Leo. It wouldn't do to leave him facing the ogre alone. "One of you bring back the tray when you're finished," Kendall said to the boys. He exchanged a worried look with Diego as they passed each other in the plaza.

**Gilberto**

He'd gone swimming that morning – after seeing to Father's safe arrival there was no reason to hurry – but that had been hours ago and he was dusty and stiff from a day in the saddle. Sleeping on the ground last night hadn't been particularly pleasant, either. Or eating those hard, little lumps of traveling 'bread.' And jerky – inedible.

Was he getting old? He never used to mind sleeping on the ground. Of course during a round-up there was always real food at least: long days of hard work were bearable if a good cook was waiting at the end of it with a pot of beans and some corn cakes. Or roast beef.

Tonight he would be home in time for dinner. The happy thoughts of Maria's cooking were interrupted by the sight of Diego standing tensely in the cave. He'd been pacing, but now he took Toronado's head with obviously relief. "Are you all right? Did anything happen on the road?"

"I'm fine. No, why?" He swung down and stretched his stiff legs and back. "It was just a trip to Santa Barbara. You worry too much."

Diego stroked Toronado's long nose. "The alcalde is back."

"What?" Gilberto stripped off the mask and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. "He didn't go?"

"No, he's back. He left this morning and then he came back. He just…changed his mind."

"That's…odd…" Gilberto said. "Still, it wasn't a wasted trip. Father will be able to mail those letters."

"First he's going, then he's not. It isn't like him to do something – anything – for no reason. And _none_ of his reasons are good."

Gilberto poured himself a glass of stale water from the pitcher and drained it. "So what could he be up to….what, two or three hours north of the Mission?"

"There are a couple of small farms up in the north valley….? Hardly worth his trouble. Are they current on their taxes? Damn." Sagging, he unbuckled the cinch and lifted the saddle free. "We don't have a clue. Perhaps you could - "

"Not tonight." Gilberto flung himself into the chair and began to tug at Zorro's tight black boots. "I'll check on them tomorrow. Or – better – _you_ could check on them tomorrow. Ride up and be neighborly." The first boot came free. "I have to act as though I actually do some work on this ranch every once in a while. Tomorrow I'll check on the bees. And in the afternoon, I should go look over the new house."

But Diego did not ride north on Friday or the day after. Early the next morning, while Gilberto was clearing a fallen branch that had knocked down part of the fence that sheltered the bee yard, the stable boy got kicked by Dulcinea.

Father's mare was a demon on any average day. Gravid, she was worse. She kicked Pepe in the stomach, and – according to Felix – tossed him halfway across the corral. Pepe was hurt badly enough that Diego sent for the doctor, and they spent the day watching him for fear that he had been torn inside and the doctor would have to attempt an operation.

It was a terrible accident, but Gilberto didn't hear anything about it until he got home that evening, and by then the worst of it seemed to be over. Diego had moved the boy into the small guest room where he could be looked after. The bruise was large and black and pepe could not move without whimpering in pain, but his belly was soft. There was no blood in his urine. His ribs were whole.

Nuela, the boy's aunt, dithered and wrung her hands, flitting in and out of the room and fussing at the doctor. Gilberto set her to go and help prepare supper: the doctor would be staying, he pointed out. He would need to eat.

Diego gave Gilberto a grateful look for that.

"Can we give him anything for pain?" Gilberto asked. "Perhaps to sleep?"

Doctor Hernandez shook his head. "It would be better to wait a bit longer. We need him to be able to tell us if the pain grows worse or becomes sharp."

"Hmm. All right. Can you spend the night, then? I can have Nuela prepare a room. It would give her something else to do…."

"That would be best, I think."

When that was settled, Gilberto drew Diego aside. "You should have sent for me."

"To do what? There were plenty of hands to help. There was nothing to do but watch and wait."

Gilberto snorted.

"And do not be so hard on Nuela. She does love the boy."

"She is a silly woman, but keep her busy and she will be fine." He waved that away. "How are _you_?"

Diego shrugged. "Well enough. It's been a long day."

"Hm."

"I did take my medicine. On time. Don't scowl at me."

"And Victoria?"

"The same. Recovering. We took a walk in the garden earlier."

Gilberto nodded. He sighed. "It _would_ be nice if Father could leave the house and not come back to a disaster."

Diego nudged his shoulder. "It was an accident. Perhaps – God willing – not even a particularly bad one. He doesn't seem to have torn the viscera. He worst of the pain will pass in a couple of days. Accidents happen."

Gilberto grunted.

The night passed with no sign of internal bleeding, and Pepe spend the next day dosed and sleeping. Diego hovered. Felipe and Victoria selected some roses from the garden to brighten the little guest room. Gilberto rode out to check the herd with Juan: someone had to be seen working the ranch, after all. He had lunch at the line shack with the vaqueros. When the heard about Pepe, one of the men produced a little carved horse he'd been making, asking that Gilberto take it back with him as a present.

The little gesture was unexpectedly touching, and Gilberto had to swallow hard. They were good people, even the rough vaqueros.

When he brought the gift into the sick room that evening he found the little lamb Pepe had been hand raising was curled up on the bed. "Don't let Father catch us with sheep in the house," was all he said to Nuela about it.

~tbc


	21. July 2, 1815

**July 2, 1815**

**Victoria**

She had worried that Senora Sosa would try to talk her out of going to church, but she had only said, "I am sure it will be uncomfortable, but you have been cooped up here for weeks. It will be good for you to get out and see people."

Gilberto had only nodded when she appeared in her good dress that morning. He had started to continue past her, but then turned and leaned down to say softly, "_Don't_ try to kneel. I mean it. It isn't worth getting stuck. Father Benitez will understand." And then he winked at her – patronizingly? She couldn't tell - and moved on briskly, calling for Felipe.

Diego asked her – three times – if she were sure, but he did not openly object.

The carriage ride was the worst of it. The road had been smoothed out a bit after the spring rains, but that had only taken care of the worst of the ruts. Every little rock and bump that made the carriage bounce sent a shock of pain up her side. Victoria leaned into the extra cushions that Diego had set behind her and took slow, small breaths. She was going to do this. She was going to town. She would see people. She would see her tavern.

Her relief at finally arriving at the church was quickly wiped away by concerns about how she would get out of the carriage.

Diego hopped down and turned back, holding out his hands. Victoria hesitated, biting her lip. He would lift her down by her waist, which was still very tender.

"Put your hands on my shoulders and try to hold as much of your weight as you can. Like that. And – Do forgive me - " Swiftly, Diego plucked her up by her _hips_ and swung her lightly from the carriage. Almost before she knew it, she was on the ground, blinking in surprise. It hadn't hurt at all.

"Thank you," she managed. Diego offered her his arm.

Next came the journey up the steps and into the sanctuary. It seemed as though dozens of people materialized and pressed forward, wanting to say hello or see for themselves how she was recovering. Victoria managed to smile and say polite things, but she was tired by the time they reached the de le Vega pew.

Unfortunately, her weariness didn't stop her from spending the actual mass struggling not to be distracted by sinful thoughts. Sitting on the bench, listening to the litany wash over her, her mind kept straying to the feel of Diego's hands on her hips.

They had been face to face, inches apart, so close they could have kissed, and his hands –

No one had ever touched her there before. The outside of her hips, just over the bone. His hands had curved around her, fitting –

The moment had been so brief that the memory kept trying to slip away, leaving only an impression of his steady, gentle grip, so strong….

Which she should absolutely not be thinking about, certainly not in church.

She should be ashamed. Diego was a good man. _He_ wasn't sitting there thinking about touching her. Was he? No. No. Diego was very proper, completely in control. He had been thinking of her comfort, her safety. He probably hadn't even noticed….

Victoria had noticed, and she spent a long hour trying desperately to _stop_ noticing.

The solution to her improper difficulty presented itself in the most unexpected form: on the steps after church, the alcalde swept up, offered her a charming smile, kissed her hand, and said, "Ah, Senorita! How good to see you again. We were all so pleased to hear of your recovery. The pueblo hasn't been the same without you."

He smiled, and for a moment it seemed as though there might be warmth in his eyes, or a least a little honest happiness. Completely surprised by the new tactic – and completely baffled as to its point – Victoria retrieved her hand and answered, "Thank you for your kind concern."

"Nothing is more important than the wellbeing of the people in my care. I do hope you won't hesitate to ask if there is anything you need."

Ask him for help? When hell froze over! But she kept her gaze level and wished him a good day.

As he moved through the crowd – speaking to the deacon, a couple of caballeros, an elderly gentlewoman – Senora Sosa whispered, "What in the world is _that_ about?"

Diego and Gilberto shared a brief frown but said nothing.

**Felipe**

Sir Edmund closed the tavern and came to the hacienda for Sunday dinner. He talked shop with Victoria for a while (it was clear that Victoria had been charmed into thinking he was a sweet, harmless old man. Felipe knew better; he was as sharp and dangerous as Diego). Then they played the language game. Victoria could sign a little, though she could speak no English at all. She found their antics very funny.

After the meal, though, she went to lie down. She was limping, sort of, and holding her arm close in. Diego looked after her frowning.

Gilberto, of course, had no interest in Victoria. He turned to Sir Edmund as soon as Victoria and Senora Sosa were gone. "Do we need to speak alone?"

He humphed. "I wish we did. Sadly, I have nothing useful to discuss at all."

So they took a walk in the garden and Sir Edmund set Felipe to doing forms while he and the twins had a very quiet conversation about the alcalde.

"Nothing?" Gilberto said, shifting in his seat. Clearly, he wanted to pace. "Nothing unusual at all?"

"Nothing at _all_, apparently," Sir Edmond answered. Felipe missed what he said next, but Gilberto cursed and then did get up to pace.

"Tell us exactly," Diego said. Felipe gave up on the forms and stood still to watch the conversation.

"He stayed late in his office on Friday. He saw no one. Yesterday, he send a lancer to the tavern to fetch an early lunch…in the afternoon, he had a very long meeting with that sergeant…." He frowned. "And in the evening he brought Mendoza to the tavern and bought dinner for both of them."

"Unusual," Diego said. "Hardly criminal."

Sir Edmond made a face. "He was in an ebullient mood. Mendoza, I mean. The alcalde has given him a raise. And apparently asked his opinion on a great many matters…."

"Odd," Diego said.

"It has been two months! Two months!" Gilberto exploded. "Whatever he is up to, we have no idea!"

"He may be up to nothing," Diego said carefully.

"What shall we bet on that?" he ground out in response. "He must move soon. He may have moved already. And he just sits in his office, and eats in the tavern – you _saw_ him at church! Since when does he waste his pleasant words on the deacon? Or Victoria? And why is he so _happy_?"

"Which may be his point," Diego answered. "He has reasons to bide his time, and it is driving us mad. Perhaps he trying to provoke a mistake."

"Enough," Sir Edmond said. "Speculation gets us nowhere. Here, come and make Felipe work a bit."

Felipe's lesson was short and grueling (for Felipe), but not nearly enough to cure Gilberto's restlessness, so Sir Edmond removed his jacket and fenced him back and forth across the side yard until he was sweaty and panting. Then it was Diego's turn. And then Felipe's again.

Don Alejandro arrived home just as the afternoon was getting late. If he had arrived any earlier he would have been treated to a display of extraordinary swordsmanship, Zorro at his best and facing the rare opponents who could give him a good match.

Fortunately, Gilberto had been thoroughly tired out and even knocked into the dust a couple of times. As Don Alejandro entered the garden, Felipe took care of Gilberto's exhaustion and whatever distraction that made him glance to the side, and disarmed him.

It had been a lovely strike, and Felipe turned to make sure the others had seen it. He nearly dropped his own sword when he saw Don Alejandro standing by the gate. How much had he seen?

But Don Alejandro only smiled and signed, _Nice_, before moving to greet his sons and Sir Edmund. "I can't believe how much you've taught Felipe in such a short time…but I can't say I quite approve of lessons on a Sunday."

None of them dared look at one another. Sir Edmund took the responsibility, of course, and what could Don Alejandro say to him? Anyway, he hadn't seen anything too revealing. Getting into a little trouble for breaking the rules wasn't nearly so bad as giving away Zorro's secret.

Felipe hurriedly put aside the sword and ran to the house to get some refreshments: some lemonade and some little cakes and cheese. He returned just as Diego was finishing the report on the ranch.

"Clearly, I'm going to have to do something about Dulcinea," Don Alejandro said.

"For a while, at least," Diego agreed. "Although after this no one but Felix and Juan will go near her anyway. We were lucky this time. It could have been much worse."

Seated off to the side, Gilberto wiped his face with his handkerchief and said, "What about your trip, Father? How was Santa Barbara?"

He shrugged. "Uneventful. The weather was fine. The baby is beautiful. The letters are mailed." He made a face. "Our alcalde never arrived."

"No," Sir Edmund said. "He left on Thursday morning, but then he changed his mind and returned."

"Did you see who else attended that meeting of his?" Diego asked.

"There was no meeting. There were no other visitors to Santa Barbara at all."

"A _secret_ meeting," Sir Edmund said uncertainly.

Don Alejandro laughed at this. "The Santa Barbara presidio is tiny. The 'town' is a trading post and a shabby little tavern. And everyone is a terrible gossip. If there ever was a meeting called there, _everyone_ scheduled to go changed their minds…."

"Odd…." Diego said.

Everyone agreed that it was. No one had any ideas about what to do. Felipe, thinking about it, felt very nervous.

**Gilberto**

He might be losing his mind.

He told himself – when he searched the alcalde's office on Monday night and again on Tuesday night – that this was only due caution. When, in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, he happened to catch sight of Mendoza returning from the latrine, he told himself it would be silly to waste the opportunity. Bearing the little dagger Diego had given him, he swept the terrified lancer into a shadowed corner and grilled him about the alcalde's plans.

Mendoza had had only confusion to share, although to be fair, he had a great deal of it and he shared it willingly and in detail. The alcalde had not yelled at him in days. He had asked his opinion, and received it without sarcasm. He hadn't ranted about anything. He hadn't assigned anyone a punishment detail. He was in the office early and he stayed late.

He had not met with anyone except Mendoza.

He had not mentioned the annual tax assessment, which was due to start next week.

"He must be up to something," Zorro had protested.

Mendoza sagged. "He is always up to something, Zorro. I swear on my life I don't know what it is."

On Wednesday morning, the alcalde settled himself on the tavern porch with a pot of tea and watched people gather for the market. He smiled at everyone who met his eyes. He pleasantly greeted everyone who passed close to his seat.

When Felipe brought the finished papers out, Ramone actually paid for his. Usually, he just took one as his right (since the government owned the press) and without even bothering to glance at the boy selling them. Today he said absently, "Thank you, my good lad."

Watching all of it from a chair he'd set beside _The Guardian_ doorway, it was all he could do just to resist the urge to go over and demand to know what the hell he thought he was doing_. I am losing my mind_, he thought. _This is obsession_.

And yet, he could also not think of a logical reason to let down his guard. For the first few weeks it had been reasonable to think that the alcalde was on his best behavior because he was expecting the territorial commissioner. With the man murdered, though, that explanation no longer held. Considering that Ramone himself might well have arranged his death, it seemed likely that that explanation had _never_ held. Which meant he had not been fearfully trying to 'make good' for a couple of months now.

Gilberto did not have a clue what the villain was doing. He feared it was terrible. He also feared that it was only his own expectations and fears – and exhaustion and frustration - that were causing his worry.

Diego came out of the newspaper and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Gilberto sighed.

Diego smiled. "Let's test his patience, shall we?" And without waiting for a reply, he walked toward the tavern and greeted the alcalde with a hearty "Good morning."

"Why good morning." He lifted the paper he had been looking at. "Don Diego! Let me congratulate you on another exemplarily edition." To Gilberto's knowledge, he had never praised the paper without irony or some backhanded compliment. Today his smile had no edge to it at all.

Diego did not respond to the change. He only said, "Thank you," and asked if they might join him.

"Of course, of course. Do sit down." He leaned toward the door and waved down Pilar. "Lemonade or tea? Senorita, some lemonade please. Now, what can I do for you, gentlemen?"

For a moment it seemed that Diego had not planned quite so far ahead in the conversation. Then he leaned forward and said, "The renovations to the de Silva hacienda are nearly complete. The orphans will be moving in later this week. I wondered if you had some comment for the paper?"

"What is there to say? It was a beautiful gesture on the part of the de Silva beneficiaries. A tangible testament to kindness and mercy." He grew serious. "As the representative of secular authority in the area…perhaps I should inspect the property before they take possession." The thought seemed spontaneous, but it was quite out of character. It could be that _this_, at last, was a move in his game.

Or perhaps not, because he added, "Of course, you might also want to view the new orphanage. For the newspaper, I mean. Whoever is writing the story should see the place first hand. Hmm. Perhaps we could make an appointment to see it together?"

"An excellent idea," Diego agreed at once. "I'll speak to my father. I'm sure he would like to lead the tour himself."

Surely, now, _now_, Ramone would show some reaction, some distaste or shame or something! But he only nodded agreeably.

Diego shifted ever so slightly. "I wanted to mention – I was riding out by the west fork last week. The aqueduct is coming along beautifully. I've been meaning to compliment you." He sounded completely earnest, but this, if anything, would provoke Ramone.

But no. Ramone was as good an actor as Diego. He smiled with innocent interest. "Do you think so? You know, I haven't been out there in a while myself. I need to go out and take a look. How much longer do you estimate the project will take?"

Diego blinked. He breathed in slowly, took too long to answer, finally managed to meet this impossibly civil response: "Months, I'm afraid. Six or eight. It depends on the crops and how much manpower you lose to the harvest."

Ramone nodded. "Ah, yes. But you have the same problem with your new house, don't you?"

The conversation ended soon after that. Diego had played his best hands, and lost with every one of them. The alcalde could not be provoked into breaking his façade. Gilberto almost had to admire the performance. He would never have credited Luis Ramone with so much self-control.

**Victoria**

Little Pepe was forbidden to work in the barn until his bruises were no longer painful. Deprived of his freedom and the manly work of tidying the barn, he sat with Victoria and Maria at the kitchen door, shelling beans. He was explaining that he always liked Wednesdays best – even when he wasn't allowed to go to town – because normally Diego required that he read one page from the translation of the Gospels and two pages from the history book, but on Wednesdays he got to read the newspaper instead. The newspaper was much easier to read than the Gospels, of course, and – he explained at length – more interesting than the histories.

"Except on Sunday. Then I have to read three pages from the Gospels." He frowned. "I don't see why I have to read it: I go to church, don't I? Nobody else reads the Bible at all."

Over her head, Victoria smiled at Maria. For the past two days he had been freed from his bed but confined to the house. His conversation had consisted mainly of harrying and unlikely pirate stories. This new topic was an improvement.

"I have the proof Diego ran yesterday. You don't have to wait until they come home," Victoria offered.

Pepe made a face at her. "I'm not in a hurry," he said.

Maria chuckled. "He does have to wait until we are finished with the beans. Anyway, here come the boys now." She nodded toward the barn.

Everyone was home: Don Alejandro, the twins, Felipe. They were taking the shortcut through the kitchen from the barn. Both of the twins looked distracted, although they stopped to greet Maria, and Diego asked Victoria how she was feeling. Don Alejandro and Pepe were talking about sheep. The boy might not be fond of reading, but he had a talent for animals. After pirates, it seemed to be favorite topic.

The conversation during lunch was … completely like any other day. They talked of the market, newspaper, the cattle, Don Alejandro's mare, repairs on the line shacks, who was getting married. It was completely unremarkable.

And yet.

Diego's eyes were focused far away, even when he was speaking about some technical issue with the paper. Gilbert was unusually mercurial: he alternated between considerate and charming (a sign he was making a special effort) and distracted and irritable (more so than usual). She had no clue what was bothering him. Over the last few days he had grumbled about the alcalde, but he had no reason to take such an emotional interest in the usual government corruption. He was surely hiding some other concern.

And in addition to the individual oddness of each of the twins, some odd energy seemed to tangle between them. It was…worrying. Were they quarreling? Were they hiding something?

Was Diego ill? That was always the real worry, wasn't it? Diego's precarious health…but he seemed to be distracted, not unwell.

They were just leaving the table when Mendoza came to the front door with an envelope to deliver. "I'm sorry," he said. "But could I ask you to read it now? Otherwise I'll have to come back later to get the answer," he winced apologetically, "and there are a lot of invitations to deliver."

"Invitations?" Don Alejandro asked, flipping the envelope open. "Well. That is the last thing I expected." He passed the note to Gilberto.

"He is hosting a party Friday night at the tavern," Gilberto said. "Well. I have to agree, that's unexpected."

Mendoza shrugged helplessly. "Has been very…nice lately. Anyway, he is inviting the leading members of the community to a party on Friday night." He sighed. "Obviously we must hurry to deliver the invitations."

"Quite right. Must gather up all the little rabbits, mustn't we?" Don Alejandro went to the doorway and called for Maria to bring the sergeant some water.

"Rabbit?" Mendoza repeated. "Oh, no. He is serving chicken."

Very extravagant. Beef was easier and cheaper. And he was holding it at the tavern. Oh, dear. "Sergeant, how many people?"

"Oh, about thirty, I think. You never know who has out of town guests." He drained the glass of water Maria brought, smiled his thanks, and asked how many people would be coming. He had a little scrap of paper to mark it down on.

"We'll send a message in later today, Sergeant," Diego said quickly. I'm sure you have more invitations to deliver."

As he hurried out Victoria leaned back in the chair, feeling a bit dizzy. "I have to go home. Thirty people!"

"Victoria," Diego began.

"Don't try to talk me out of it!"

"No. Obviously. But, Victoria…."

"Only to supervise. I'll hire a couple of extra girls. Friday! That isn't nearly enough time. I have to talk to Senor Kendall!" She struggled to her feet.

Diego caught her hand. "We'll send a note asking him to come here. Wearing yourself out traveling back and forth will just be a waste. Actually, given the circumstances, I'd be surprised if he weren't already on his way…."

Gilberto's voice obliterated the rest of what he was going to say. "Yes, obviously you're right! Of course he is still a crocodile!" She had been ignoring the conversation between Gilberto and his father as it gradually grew louder. Now it was impossible to speak over.

"So how can you suggest we just march into his little party like innocent rabbits hopping into the crocodile's mouth? I want no part of it! We know what kind of man he is. And we know this 'party' is not a helpful ride across the river."

Gilberto snorted, but stepped back and lowered his hands. "If we go, we might find out what is going on. Besides, whatever he is up to, he will do it whether we are there or not. Staying home won't stop him."

"So we sit at his table? Drink his wine? No. No. I will not break bread with a man who has had me arrested, had my sons arrested – Diego nearly died in his custody! No - "

Diego quickly left Victoria, took Don Alejandro by the arm, and led him aside, turning away from the parlor to face the huge, open entryway. Frowning, Victoria glanced at Gilberto who had his head in his hands. Felipe was seated by the fireplace. He had his arms folded and his eyes down. The room was very quiet.

Pepe, holding his copy of The Guardian, peeped around the edge of the doorway and then withdrew quickly.

Diego said, "He is the representative of the Government. Unless we are willing to declare open rebellion, we must show proper respect for the office."

Don Alejandro was still not looking at the rest of the room. He said, "It sounds like a personal invitation to me. I have no desire to be his guest, and if the snub offends him, so much the better!"

Gilberto ground his teeth together and turned away. Victoria had to wince at his temper.

"Father," Diego said gently. "'Berto is right. It accomplishes nothing to stay home, and we may learn something if we go. Besides, Victoria will have to be there, to see to the tavern. If there is quarrelling or – or trouble…we should be there."

Don Alejandro returned to his seat and sighed heavily. "Oh, this man! This man. Damn. It is only a dinner invitation. And yet…." He sighed again. "I do wonder….what if he realized he went too far this spring? What if he is in fear for his position? What if he really is trying to behave himself?"

Diego looked surprised. "Do you think that's likely?"

"Of course not. But he has not raised taxes in months. Not called for civil discipline. Not gotten into a quarrel with the mission. Not tried to cheat anyone. Not…anything. And now….Have you talked to him lately?"

Diego did not answer at once. He went to the window and looked out for a moment. Finally, he said, "I have to say that the man I spoke to today…does not seem to be the man I've known for over two years. But what it means….whether he has _changed_ or if he has only come up with some new game to advance himself at the pueblo's expense….I wouldn't have said he was that good an actor. Still."

"Father," Gilberto said quietly. "Let us find out. If you don't want to go to the party, I do understand. If you don't want to publically give your blessing to his…hospitality…."

"If you are going, I am going," he said. He glanced at Victoria. He groaned and waved a helpless hand. "We are going."

~tbc

If you're familiar with the series you've already identified the episode…but you've done the math and you're wondering if perhaps I've made some mistake (the sort that happens in amateur fiction)? And then, there is the inevitable thought that perhaps there **is** no mistake and I actually mean it.

There is no mistake. As for meaning it, well, I always loathed "Devil's Fortress."


	22. July 6 1815

**July 6 1815**

**Felipe**

Thursday was busy. Clearing the plates only took half a day, but Victoria had to be brought in to town so she could help organize the tavern, everyone's best clothing had to be prepared for the party, Pepe was bored and confined to the house and getting into everything…and all of this on not nearly enough sleep because Diego had had a bad night.

At midnight and again just after three Diego had been up with his bad heart. Both times the attack had been resolved with cold water, but going back to sleep afterwards had been hard, at least for Felipe. And then at dawn Diego had been up again, not_ ill_, but upset by some idea he'd had. He wouldn't tell Felipe what it was.

And then the day had gotten busy, and there had been no time to ask.

The only bright spot in it all was that Felipe would not be required to attend the party. In fact, his duty Friday night would be exciting (and it would not include wearing wool pants and a jacket). He would take Toronado out to the top of the little hill just north of town and keep watch. If there was any sign of trouble in town or of any large parties approaching town, he was to set off a batch of time-delay explosives. It would be both a warning and a diversion which the twins could make use of if they needed to.

There was so much they didn't know. It was very worrying.

Sir Edmond, at least, was a source of reassurance. He seemed to enjoy getting ready for the party, cleaning out the outdoor oven to handle the large quantity of food they would be cooking, wiping down the large chandeliers himself, inspecting the rooms (because Victoria could not just trot up and down those stairs) for those guests who lived too far out to return home after the party.

When Felipe came to the tavern to collect an afternoon snack (no one had time, of course, to bring it over) he found Sir Edmond huddled in the kitchen with Victoria discussing how the tables would be laid out for the supper.

"But I always do it this way," Victoria was saying. "For one thing, it will be the easiest way to move the tables aside afterward for dancing."

Sir Edmond nodded agreeably. "I have no doubt you are right. However if we put the head table over _here_, running _that_ way, it puts the host with his back to the kitchen door."

Victoria frowned. "The kitchen? I haven't heard of that before. Is it some kind of court etiquette?"

Sir Edmund glanced at Felipe and winked. "Etiquette? Not at all. It will merely give me the advantage if he should somehow…abuse his hospitality."

Victoria swallowed, and, although they were alone, lowered her voice. "You don't think something like that will be necessary, do you?"

Sir Edmond inclined his head. "I don't think so, no. But I can't be sure, and I have been betrayed before. It is only reasonable to take precautions." The sort of 'precaution' he was thinking of ought to be terrifying, but he was so calm and reasonable about it that Felipe couldn't help thinking – at least for that moment – that everything would be all right.

"Now, for you boys. I'm afraid we have no cookies today. No time. But there is dried fruit and bread and a pitcher of fresh milk."

**Gilberto**

**Friday **

It was not as though he was trying to lure in a woman. Or as though, given Father's position, it was necessary to impress anyone with appearances. Still….

Gilberto got out his best suit, the one in blue with silver embroidery on the lapels and cuffs. And the perfectly cut shoes he had bought in Madrid. And Grandfather's ring. He would dress for a fiesta. He would be confident and charming.

If he had to face Ramone in party clothes and a decorative little sword, well, he would look magnificent doing it. And he would not dwell on the fact that Diego would undoubtedly look better. He always did. Gilberto had learned to live with it.

Except Diego, when Gilberto came to his room, looked haggard and a little grey. Gilberto took Diego's cravat from Felipe and shoed him out. "You're unwell," Gilberto said.

"No. Honestly, I'm not."

"Diego, if you are not up to this, I will forgive you."

That earned him a brief smile. "Generous; I can imagine how unpleasant the party is likely to be. But no."

"I will not ask you to suffer through a horrible evening for _him_. It might even be strategic, to have one of us absent?"

"I'm fine. Give me my cravat."

Gilberto took a slow breath and reminded himself to be patient. "Diego. If you get sick at the party…."

But Diego was shaking his head. "I'm not ill. I…have only had a terrible thought." He glanced away. "I cannot get it out of my mind, although it is clearly impossible. Impossible, unthinkable, dreadful…." He began to pace. "It cannot be true, but I keep coming back to it, because nothing else makes sense."

"Well? What _is_ it?" Gilberto demanded. "What is the bastard up to?"

Diego snorted a bitter laugh. "Oh. Well. That is the good news, at least. If I'm right, neither the pueblo not Zorro is in any immediate danger."

"Diego - "

"I'll tell you. After dinner tonight, I'll tell you my mad idea. But look at him one more time, see what you see without being influenced by me. So you can give me an unclouded opinion."

"If there is something I need to know - "

"Berto, if I'm wrong, it won't matter…and if I am right, I fear it still doesn't matter. I'll tell you tonight. Afterward."

"Come here, then," Gilberto said, holding out the cravat. "I'll help you with this."

**Victoria**

This was hardly the first grand party the tavern had hosted. Not all the well-to-to families lived close to town or had a great number of guest rooms. Four or five times a year someone would want to celebrate a birthday or a christening or a wedding and hire out the tavern for it. Then, too, there was usually someone who wanted to hold a party for the Day of the Dead or Nativity or Saint Juan.

Victoria had a set of nice dishes – forty settings in two sizes, as well as enough good glassware to serve everyone wine in style. It wasn't quite china or crystal, but it was very respectable. She had table cloths, too, and certainly enough tables and chairs.

She had bunting to decorate the balcony with, and she had paid (in scrap cloth which they planned to make into a ragdoll for their new baby sister) the blacksmith's daughters to collect bundles of wildflowers to decorate the tables.

The party itself did not worry her. Yes, it was a lot of work (made worse because she could do almost none of it herself) but it was known territory. No, line of concerns that marched through her mind had nothing to do with the mechanics of hosting a party and everything to do with what occasion the alcalde might be celebrating.

Perhaps he meant to announce some new tax? Perhaps he was going to reinstate the force labor program that Don Alejandro's visit to Monterrey had curtailed? Perhaps he meant to hold all the guests hostage in exchange for Zorro's surrender? Perhaps he was going to strengthen the martial law?

Perhaps he had thought of something even worse? The only limit to the possibilities was Luis Ramon's imagination.

The evening certainly did not develop along any prediction that Victoria had imagined. The alcalde arrived early to inspect the tavern before the party. He didn't have anything snide or disparaging to say about the decorations or the tables or the pots of food in the kitchen. He didn't seize on some excuse to quibble about the cost. He didn't warn her to avoid criticism of the government. He complimented her dress. And her hair. And the eagerness of her staff.

When his guests started arriving, he had a lancer announce them at the door like it was some kind of royal audience. He greeted everyone like an old friend he hadn't seen in months. It wasn't just that he said the right words. He always said the right words. Now there wasn't any irony or contempt or threat beneath them. Even the de le Vegas didn't provoke his usual malevolence.

Dinner started on time and proceeded without any complications. The food was good. Sir Edmund was no cook, but he could keep a group of workers organized and he didn't get flustered by hurry or mistakes. Five courses were served neatly, one after the other, with nothing forgotten and no plates dropped.

After the meal, when people were still sitting at the tables, the alcalde invited Moreno to give a reading from one of his novels. While people were still charmed by this treat, he produced an old issue of the guardian, and asked Diego to give a reading of one of his poems which had been published several months before to fill in between the news stories. Then he asked Antonia Pascal to 'favor them with a song,' which made her blush and stumble, though once she started singing she was very good.

While the tables were pushed aside, the alcalde moved from guest to guest, flattering the women, commenting on the weather or the crops to the men, urging everyone to get more wine.

The alcalde seemed to be relaxed and friendly, almost playful. He told jokes. He made up impromptu poetry. He pierced an apple Mendoza tossed in the air with a tiny dagger that he threw from a good ten paces away.

Victoria found herself wondering if he had truly changed, and if so, what had changed him. Could it be that he honestly wanted a fresh start? To be a good neighbor and the leader Los Angeles deserved?

And yet – he had apologized for nothing, made amends for nothing, given not one promise that things would be different in the future. Was being pleasant and respectful and friendly enough – even assuming that it wasn't all an act?

Stepping away for a moment into the quiet stillness of the porch, she spied someone leaning against one of the columns. "Diego?" she asked softly. "Are you all right?"

He turned and considered her for a moment. "It was…getting a little warm in there." He squared his shoulders and sighed. "What do you think of our new alcalde?"

"I really don't know. He does seem different…."

"He does, doesn't he?" Diego asked, almost sadly.

Victoria made a face. "If he has truly changed…I suppose we owe him the opportunity to at least prove himself."

"Indeed," Diego said neutrally.

Victoria bit her lip, thinking about the aqueduct. "Has he said anything…about …anything?"

"He has said nothing," Diego answered softly. "But I don't suppose that matters now."

"Diego?"

"Never mind," he said. "I'm a little thirsty. Perhaps some wine – would you like some?" He smiled politely down at her, refusing to continue the discussion.

"Yes," she said after a moment. "Thank you." This wasn't the place for this conversation after all. She accepted the arm he offered and they returned to the party.


	23. July 8, 1815

**July 8**

It was cold, sitting on the hill in the night, and Felipe huddled in his jacket. Town was very boring to watch – the only lights were in the tavern and the barracks and there was no movement of men or horses anywhere that he could see – but a spike of nervousness kept him alert for a very long time. This could be some kind of trap. _Any_ kind of trap. He had to be ready.

But the hours dragged on and nothing happened. Sometimes, when the wind blew, Felipe could hear the music from the party. He couldn't make out the melody, but it sounded cheerful. There was still no movement but a coyote trotting past his waiting place.

He tried to remind himself that trouble could erupt at any moment and he had to be vigilant, but staying anxious was exhausting….

Finally, finally, when the moon was edging toward the horizon, a carriage pulled away from the tavern and turned onto the road south. And then another. And then a small group on horseback, this time heading north at an unhurried trot. The party was breaking up, peacefully, and nothing had happened.

Surprised, Felipe sat there for a while longer, ignoring the cold that seeped into his marrow, watching two more little groups head for home. Most of the lights were out in the barracks, now, and there was a light in one of the upstairs tavern rooms. People peacefully going to bed.

Well.

He scrambled back to Toronado, checked the saddle bags (they were full of little, loud explosives, after all), and rode home.

He made it back through the secret door just as the carriage pulled into the barnyard. He sat down quickly and pretended to be dozing as the family came in. Don Alejandro seemed bemused. He described the party as 'the strangest evening of my life,' and went off to his room shaking his head. The twins were silent, but Gilberto was looking at Diego – not as though Diego were ill, but as though he were up to something.

"What happened?" Felipe demanded. "What did _he_ do?"

"It was a very nice party," Diego said heavily. "He was charming and congenial, a perfect host."

Gilberto's frown got deeper. He nodded to Felipe to bring the lamp, took Diego by the arm, and gently steered him to his room, where he shut the door. "Well?" he demanded.

Diego sat down heavily in the chair by the window. "What did you think of our host tonight?"

"As you said. He was a perfect gentleman." Gilberto made a face. "He does seem to be a changed man," he said sourly.

Diego looked up at him intently. "Changed? Or a different man entirely?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, whoever came back from the trip north on the road, it was not Luis Ramone."

Gilberto opened his mouth. He shut it again. "That's not possible," he said.

"Nevertheless. It is true. That man is not Ramone."

"Diego…." It was the tone of voice that indicated that the next question would be about Diego's health.

"It has been done before," Diego snapped.

"Father Benitez? But no one had seen him! We _know_ Luis Ramone."

"Yes, and that is not the man who hosted the party tonight. Think, for just a moment, _think_."

"But…." Gilberto passed his hand over his hair. "How could it be done? His _face_, his _voice_, you cannot forge that."

Diego leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "I don't know how it was done. And I don't know how to prove it."

"My God," Gilberto whispered. He began to pace in the little space between the bed and the window. "Are you sure? Of course you are. But _how_?"

Felipe tapped Diego's arm. Wearily, Diego looked up. "Yes, Felipe?"

"Where is the real alcalde?"

It was a moment before he answered that. "It is possible he is alive," Diego said slowly. "But I see no chance of finding him unless the imposter gives us the location. Obviously it is somewhere along the King's Road to the north, within three or four hours of town. But it is surely well hidden."

Gilberto was pacing. "If we could get him to make a mistake…."

"No one dares question him. And Ramone is known to be capricious. H can make little mistakes all day, and no one will notice anything." Diego sighed tiredly. "Something hard to fake then? A signature? What has he signed since he arrived?"

Gilberto shook his head. "He'd be sure of that before he came. Forgery is difficulty, but hardly impossible - forgery…." He stopped mid-step, holding very still. "Where did I read that?" he murmured. "Something historical. Authenticating documents with…thumbprints….? Damn." He crossed the room in three swift steps and seized Diego's hand. He thrust Diego's hand and his own free one into the light. "Damn. Is it enough?"

"What do you mean?" Diego asked. "You want to compare their hands? If we had Ramone's _hand_ - "

"Smudges. There must be smudges," Gilberto abruptly released him and stood up straight. "On – on things. In his office. At his little hacienda. There must be _things_. I'm going out!"

He was already gone. The door shut firmly behind him.

Puzzled, Felipe turned to Diego.

Diego smiled slowly.

"Do you know what he's talking about?" Felipe asked.

"I think I might." He held up his hands. "No two hands are exactly alike, and hands leave smudges. He thinks he can use that."

Felipe shook his head. "Your hands are just like his," Gilberto's, he meant, but Diego could tell that.

Diego was smiling hugely now. "Not on the fingertips. He is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant…." The smile faded. "If I'm right, he'll prove it. My brilliant brother will prove it." He closed his eyes.

Felipe nudged him. "You okay?"

"Tired. I should rest. The next few days will be busy."

Felipe spent most of Saturday covering for the twins. They spend as much of the day as they could in the laboratory, wearing gloves, scowling and quietly quarrelling over paperweights, letter openers, water glasses, candle sticks and a small lacquered box. They peered at each other's work and grumbled over things Felipe didn't understand.

Upstairs, Don Alejandro spent most of the afternoon with two of his tenants who were fighting over a little stream. It kept him busy, for which Felipe was grateful. Pepe – still not allowed to go back to the barn for work – was another problem. Felipe snitched some masa for bait, loaned him a fishing pole, and sent him fishing. Victoria had moved back to town, so a least he didn't need to think of something to keep her busy.

When it was time to come and fetch the boys for supper, Gilberto had his head down on the table, fast asleep. Diego looked very pale in the light of too-many lanterns. His bangs were stuck to his forehead. His hands were covered with red and yellow power.

"So?" Felipe asked.

Diego straightened and set his magnifying glass on the table beside a jumble of ruined gloves. "There are two sets of smudges where they should be only one."

So... "Two men," Felipe said.

"Yes."

"You have him!" Felipe smiled.

Diego shook his head. "_I _am satisfied. Gilberto is satisfied. But we can't take this to a magistrate." He frowned at his hands and tried to wipe them on a handkerchief. It made strange, bright smears.

Felipe swapped out water bucket that was filling at the trickle for an empty one, then brought back the full one. "Is that cochineal?"

"Yes. It's been an expensive afternoon. We'll tell father we've been mixing paints." He elbowed Gilberto and handed him a damp handkerchief. "I don't quite know how we'll handle the alcalde problem."

Gilberto knuckled his eyebrow, leaving a streak of yellow. "We could send a letter to the governor. He is always so helpful with our problems." He yawned, which ruined the cutting remark. "We are still working on how to get someone to believe us."

Diego froze. "You know, there is already someone who _knows_ we are right…."

Gilberto brightened. "That's true. He doesn't know how much we can prove. Or how much we know. We have an advantage."

Diego inspected his fingers. The nails were red. It was a change from the usual black of printer's ink. "We just have to figure out how to use it. And sooner would be better than later."

"Dinner first," Felipe prompted.

"Yes, I can't concentrate now, anyway," Diego said. "We will only get one chance. We have to be…clever."

**Jamie**

It was quiet, sleeping alone in the little room. After the orphanage had come ten years of barracks and tents, all of them crowded and a little loud (sometimes with the sound of crying). Jamie hadn't had a real bed or a room to himself until two years after he made sergeant. The room was small and the bed was narrow and lumpy, but it was all his.

(The room at the tavern had been much nicer: wooden floor, a window with glass in it, a little chair. But never mind. He was a lancer in service of the king, not an innkeeper. That had just been a sort of dream.)

It was a luxury to be alone. He didn't have to worry about being quiet if he woke in the night or wanted to blow his nose. And he didn't have to listen – ever – to someone else weeping or muttering.

Still, it might be nice to share with a _wife_….Maybe two little children in a trundle bed and a big one in the loft? A little farm –

Not that he knew how to farm. And it was a lot of work, farming. And a bad drought every few years, sometimes the crop didn't come in.

Of course, in the lancers sometimes the pay didn't come for months. _Many_ months…. After all, there were hard times everywhere.

The catch on the door creaked slightly as it lifted. Jamie, half-asleep, started with a feeling like ice down his spine. The door opened. A shadow moved.

His sword and pistol were on the wall, out of reach.

"Good evening, Sergeant."

Jamie nearly cried aloud: the soft voice (cool, amused) belonged to Zorro.

It took him two tries to manage a "good evening" back.

"I hope I haven't disturbed you?"

"Oh. No, no. I was still awake. I'm afraid I don't have anything to offer you. I don't normally have company…." Jamie was pleased with himself for getting that out. Apparently, Zorro was pleased, too. He chuckled once.

"Um? Can I assume you are not here to kill me? I mean, of course you're not here to kill me! I…."

Zorro shoved the single chair – did he have eyes like a cat?—into place at the foot of the bed and perched on it like a leopard. "Tell me, Mendoza, were you in on the plot?" he asked.

"No, of course not! I would never – um – what plot?"

Zorro's voice was hard now, implacable. "The plot to replace Luis Ramone with an imposter."

"What? No! Wait – is someone going to do that?" And then, "Are you all right, Zorro? That sounds a little…I mean…."

"Someone already has done it."

Mendoza gasped. And then he gasped again, because that feeling of ice in his spine was back.

"A 'no,' then, apparently," Zorro said, when he grew tired of Jamie's stunned silence.

"Mother of God," Jamie breathed at last. "That…actually explains a lot. But who? And – _Why_?"

"There are many things I don't know, Mendoza. I need you to help me find out. If you will. A crime has been committed here. The lives of your men are in the hands of….we have no idea who he is. I ask you - "

"No, you are right, Zorro!" he exclaimed – and then gulped and lowered his voice, though it was doubtful they would be overheard through the thick adobe walls. "Of course I will help you. This is…This is….but what can we do?"

~TBC


	24. July 9, 1815

**All disclaimers apply. **

**And….here we go! **

**Gilberto**

Having Sir Edmond still installed at the tavern and the tavern closed on Sunday afternoon were both amazingly convenient. While Diego and Father strolled down to look at the new house, Gilberto slipped out of the back of the tavern dressed as Zorro.

Mendoza had been a huge help as well; half the lancers had been dispatched on a patrol out to San Pedro. To keep them in a pleasant mood (they might be needed later) they had been sent off with lemonade and little cookies in addition to the usual dried mean, sea biscuits, and water.

As for those who stayed behind, right after church Sir Edmond had taken a delivery to the barracks: a kettle of Russian beet soup (Friday and Saturday, Senora Neilson had worked at the tavern), fresh bread, and four bottles of wine. A gift of appreciation, he'd said, something the English did regularly. It made him very popular, and the explanation wasn't questioned.

It also made the off duty lancers relaxed and cheerful. They would spend siesta napping or gaming. They were unlikely to get in Zorro's way….

And when - eventually - they finally became involved, only Mendoza himself and his two best men would have dry powder. Just in case anyone had the urge to overact.

Really, being Zorro was so much easier when the head of the garrison was an accomplice. If it had been any other caper there would have been no challenge in it at all….

There was no one on the street when he came around from the back of the tavern. It was disconcerting not to be running or galloping through town. But he walked. Breathing in. Breathing out. Glancing around. Reminding himself not to squander his advantage. Reminding himself to strut. He was Zorro. He had control.

Mendoza did not appear to signal otherwise, so Zorro went straight to the office. The man who looked like Ramone was seated behind the alcalde's desk. He looked up as the door opened and for a moment his eyes lit with astonishment and terror rather than the automatic rage Zorro's appearance always evoked from the real Ramone. He collected himself very quickly, though. His eyes narrowed. He forced a smile. "Well, well. Is Zorro paying me a visit?" he asked coyly.

Zorro smiled coyly back. "You don't know?"

The imposter leaned back in his chair smugly. "How could I know for certain? You might be anyone under that mask. I hear there are bandits everywhere…." He tilted his head. "And so, Zorro? What is it you want?"

Zorro searched the smiling, handsome face, looking for some trace, some difference. How could this be Ramone? could it not? Was the hair a shade lighter? Maybe. Had that crease under his right eye been there before? Possibly.

A sigh. "I'm a busy man, you know. I don't have all day to entertain bandits. What do you want?"

Zorro stepped closer to the desk. "I want to know where Luis Ramone is," he said.

The man behind the desk spread his hands. "Isn't he right here before you?"

"No. He is not. The smudges _your_ fingers leave behind are not the same as the smudges his fingers left behind."

The response was immediate and indignant. "Nonsense. What an absurd thing to say."

"There are important holes in your knowledge. You do not know who is blackmailing you…or why."

A twitch. A pause. "You want a cut, I suppose?"

Zorro smiled coldly. "Of what? The pueblo is already sucked nearly dry."

"I have…some other funds. Not all of it here in town, by the way, it's no good killing me."

Zorro waited. He managed not to say anything, just let the seconds slide by: six, twelve, fifteen –

Another coy look. "There is some honor between thieves, isn't there? Particularly one as famous as you. After all there was no love lost between you and Luis. Surely, you can see the benefits of going into business with me." He grew serious. "I can see any number of ways an arrangement would be very profitable for both of us."

Zorro slouched into the visitor's chair, one leg rudely over the arm. "As you say, _I_ am very famous. But I have no idea who you are."

A hesitation. A glance toward the inner door. His hand hovered at the desk drawer….but he didn't dare start a fight now, not here in town, not with the lancers so close, not when he couldn't be positive he could silence Zorro before witnesses arrived. "I am Vincente Aguste Jose Ramone." A tight smile. "A bank robber of some note, although I don't expect you to have heard of my exploits so far from Venezuela."

Although he had expected something of the sort Zorro found his mouth had gone dry. He had to swallow before he could speak. "A relative then. That explains the resemblance."

He made a face. "His brother – although I assure you I am not so weak, inept, or venal as poor, pathetic Luis."

Ignoring his dawning horror, Zorro probed, "Speaking of poor, pathetic Luis, where is he?"

"Why do you care?"

Zorro shrugged. It took every bit of his self-control to remain mild and disinterested. "Bit inconvenient if he shows up again. Incompetence runs in families."

"He won't. I left him in a ravine several hours into the desert."

"Dead?" Zorro asked levelly.

"By now, certainly. No food, no water…I expect the buzzards finished it."

Gilberto had never in his life imagined such as monster as the one sitting across from him now. He should be revolted, horrified, but he was too stunned. His numb brain continued the conversation on momentum alone. "Rather harsh, for your own brother."

Vincente Ramone shrugged, smiled. "Where better to hide than in a twin brother's skin?"

Without meaning to, without even realizing he was doing it, Zorro drew his sword and launched himself out of the chair and onto the desk. Flailing, Vincente Ramone fell backwards in his chair and tried to scramble free of it.

Zorro continued forward, dropped down, seized the imposter by the throat, and pinned him – crouched, gasping, squirming – against the back wall. The smooth mirror of his blade rested against the impeccable cravat.

"Have you lost your mind?" Vincente gasped.

"Zorro," Mendoza said softly from behind him. "I heard everything. I was in the cells, by the door. We have him. You can let go."

Gilberto shuddered. "Where is the body?"

Vincente struggled. "What is the matter with you? Are you mad? He was your enemy!"

Gilberto shoved a knee in his chest. "_Where_ is the body!"

Vincente scrambled and wiggled. Gilberto slammed his head into the adobe wall. Vincente cursed. "He was your enemy! Were you _in league_ with him?"

"I will kill you right now. The only value your life has for me is the location of your brother's body."

Vincente Ramone's eyes were wide. "A fraud all of it…the two of you…."

"The body!" But Zorro was half convinced he wouldn't talk. There was no good reason not to kill him.

"Zorro," Mendoza was sounding a little frantic now.

Zorro shifted the sword. Vincente's eyes grew even wider. Whatever he saw in Zorro terrified him. "North, on the road, three hours," he began, his voice a whisper. He described the landmarks, the location, the state he had left his brother in.

Zorro managed not to kill him.

**Diego **

The walk from the new house to the plaza took a couple of minutes, but Father was walking quickly – distracted by some detail of the construction – and Diego was winded when they reached the fountain.

"They say the best man for detailed carpentry and fretwork is Pablo, down at San Juan Capistrano. I hate negotiating with the mission down there. They never expect you to pay the workers as well as the Church. It's practically slave labor, though they don't call it that."

Diego was concentrating on breathing slowly and deeply, or he would have pointed out that half the haciendas that hired labor from San Gabriel only paid the mission and not the worker.

"I'd like that staircase to be something special, though. Don't you think, Diego? I can get some nice wood from – Well! What do you suppose is wrong with him?"

Diego, with his eyes on the cuertel, had to turn to see what his father was pointing at. Gilberto was storming across the tavern porch. He mounted Viking and rode off as though the Devil himself were chasing him. He didn't look right or left – he didn't glance at Diego – as he thundered out of town.

He hadn't appeared to be injured.

Before Diego could make up his mind what to do, a lancer came out of the gate, striking the drum for attention.

Father frowned. "An announcement. On a Sunday. I wonder what the rascal is up to…."

But it was Mendoza who appeared, not the alcalde. He looked at the faces peering out of doorways. He removed his hat. The actual announcement was very short: Luis Ramone, the duly appointed colonial authority, was dead, murdered. The man who had been appearing as their alcalde for the last few days had been an imposter. He was currently locked up and under guard.

Mendoza sighed miserably. "In a few minutes I am going to take a group of lancers north to try to recover the body. I'd like to ask…it would be helpful if…a few members of the civil community could accompany us."

On a Sunday afternoon there weren't many gentlemen in town: Father, Senor Estevez, that was all. They roused Father Benitez to go to. He had to borrow a horse from the garrison, since the little mule the parish kept was so slow. Diego waited until the party had started up the road before heading to the tavern to see if Felipe or Sir Edmond had gotten any kind of report from Gilberto.

They hadn't. He had simply slipped in the back, changed clothing, and stormed out. All he had said was that it was finished.

"What about Victoria?" Diego asked.

Sir Edmond shook his head. "Sleeping, I believe. She will have to be told. I don't imagine she will shed any tears for him."

"No. If anything…we are all safer than we have been…." But he still wasn't sure. He didn't know why the imposter had done it. What if this had been part of some elaborate plan for treason or embezzlement? What if the imposter had accomplices?

He collected Esperanza and rode home.

He found Gilberto in the cave. A broken jar of yellow ochre fanned out at his feet, but he only gazed down at it unseeing.

"Another earthquake?" Diego prodded him.

Gilberto blinked down at the mess, then scowled and stepped backwards. His hands were shaking.

"What's wrong? 'Berto? Are you unwell?"

There was no answer, and Diego came closer. "'Berto?"

"He is dead…."

"Yes," Diego said. "But…'Berto? You have seen murder before – "

Gilberto started to answer, but gagged before he could complete the first word. Diego was on him at once, franticly searching for some sign of fever, a smell that might be poison, anything, _anything_. Gilberto was shuddering, overcome by something. And then Gilberto shoved him away. "He was murdered by his _brother_. His twin."

"Never mind that. What is wrong with you? Are you ill?"

Gilberto gulped, waved at him to be quiet, choked out, "Luis Ramone was a bastard. He was a thief, a sadist, a murderer…vile, _foul_, God knows, but there was one man – one man – who he should have been able to trust, one man…." Stumbling over the words, Gilberto turned away, the heels of his hands grinding at his eyes.

"'Berto," Diego began.

"His brother murdered him and stole his life!"

Oh. Yes. A terrible, terrible crime. Unimaginable. Except Gilberto had a very good imagination, and he had looked into the eyes of a man who had murdered his brother.

"Enough," Diego whispered, taking him by the arms and turning him around. "Enough. You have not betrayed me. Never. And you won't."

Gilberto closed his eyes.

"It is unspeakable," Diego said. "It is unthinkable. As bad as Ramone was, to find another worse?" Diego cursed. "What a family they must have come from, to breed two as poisonous as that!" Gilberto did not laugh. He was still shaking. He would not open his eyes. "Ah, 'Berto, 'Berto."

"Even Ramone did not deserve _this_," he murmured.

Diego nodded and pulled Gilberto against his shoulder. "To be so cruelly betrayed by the one – perhaps the only one in the world - who should have loved him. I cannot imagine it. But, 'Berto, I have not betrayed you. This madness I lured you into, the risks you have taken for me, you have survived them. I never asked more than you could manage. And because of what you have done, it was possible to survive Ramone. Our neighbors, our town, our _family_. You would not have survived a revolution. Please, 'Berto, it was the best I could do."

Gilberto's shoulders jerked in what might have been either a sob or a muffled laugh. After a few ragged breaths he said, "That never occurred to me." A definite laugh, if a little weak. "You are confusing us. That is your worry, never mind. Eh. No. No, it is because I can't conceive of you ever…No. I can't even say it."

Diego looked up at the uneven ceiling and sighed. He wanted to say nothing, to forget this horrible day, but whatever nasty wound Gilberto had opened, it had to be cleaned or it would infect. Carefully, he said, "I know we didn't always get along. I know…we've both been angry. But you have never - "

Gilberto stepped back, passed his hand over his eyes, said earnestly, "Diego this is not about the two of us. Or any guilt or anger of mine."

"I know you used to wish you were an only child," Diego said gently.

"When we were children! and _stupid!_ – although you are being particularly stupid _now_. Can't you understand? I was the man's enemy, and I behaved more honorably toward him than his own….Vincente Ramone staked his brother out in the desert to _die_."

Diego's brows rose. "Perhaps there is a chance, then - "

"A week ago. If he did not escape, then he is dead. And if he did escape, where is he? He wasn't just murdered, he was made to suffer. You or I wouldn't treat an animal like that. Or a murderer." He paced a bit, tracking yellow across the floor. "I hated him – more than I have ever hated anyone and I would never ….We used to wonder how Ramone could be such a horror of a human being, didn't we? With a brother like that, how could he be anything else?" He shuddered.

"Hmmmm," Diego said. He pulled over a work stool and sat down.

"Luis Ramone was betrayed to suffer horribly and die, and I…you have always had faith in me. You have always believed the best of me. If I am a decent human being it is only because of you," Gilberto added.

_Horse shit_, Diego thought, but he only said, "You did not pursue justice for the alcalde today to please me. And your pity for him…isn't following any example of mine. Your virtues are your own."

Gilberto sat down, but he said nothing.

"Your cleverness. _And_ your courage. _And_ your loyalty, which has always been your great strength. I didn't give you any of that. You always had it."

"Stop," Gilberto said.

So Diego added, "It more than made up for your being lazy, self-centered, arrogant, and petty."

"Thank you," Gilberto whispered, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his eyes. He did not have to say for what. Diego knew his brother. He knew the worst of him. He loved him anyway.

Diego took a breath. "In all earnestness…I could not shed a tear for Luis Ramone. I should, but - "

Gilberto looked up. "You shouldn't. God will see to him, one way or another, little brother. Perhaps Father Benitez is right and the Lord is merciful. But he doesn't need your pity. After what he did to you…I should apologize for mourning him at all."

"Don't, though. I don't begrudge him the compassion."

Gilberto nodded.

They were quiet for a while. "I should clean up this mess," Gilberto said.

"If we can, we should go back to town, to wait…."

"Later," Gilberto said. "I can't face anyone now."

**Felipe**

They opened the tavern. Word had quickly got around to the nearest haciendas. Don Sebastian came in, and then Don Emilio, Old Don Roberto, and Don Miguel. There were Vaqueros too, since many of them had Sunday off, and – silently, worriedly – a few farmers.

By late afternoon the tavern was crowded. The only women present were elderly, but there were an unusual number of them: Senora Pascal, old Elizaveta who ran the kitchen at the orphanage, Senora Ortiz, a few others.

As appropriate for a Sunday the tavern did not serve distilled spirits. In addition, though, Sir Edmond and Victoria had conspired so that the wine was mixed with fruit juice and little pots of tea and pitchers of orange juice were set out at no cost. When Felipe asked what they were worried about, Victoria said, "_Anything_, Felipe. The world has gone mad. Absolutely anything might happen next." Sir Edmond shook his head at that, "Mainly, a riot or a lynching," he said bluntly.

Oh. Felipe looked at the very quiet, very restless crowd in the main room. Nobody was sitting down. Nobody was talking about what everyone was thinking about. It was very strange.

Afternoon turned into evening. The lancer patrol returned. They were very surprised to find out what had happened while they were gone. A few of them couldn't believe the story they were told, and were convinced it was alcalde who was locked up in the fort.

Evening turned to suppertime. The tavern served chicken and rice for supper. Victoria only gave Sir Edmond a strange look when she discovered the chickens were there to cook. There were plenty of customers and that kept her busy. (Which was just as well. How could Sir Edmond explain?)

The twins came back to town, finally. Diego left his brother in the kitchen with Sir Edmond and went to see if he could get an interview with the prisoner for the newspaper. The guards turned him away, naturally. They were on edge, too.

It was after midnight when the search party returned to town. The little wagon they had taken with them had a covered bundle on it now. Don Alejandro, Father Benitez, and Mendoza called everyone into the plaza and announced that they had found the remains of Luis Ramone. A couple of people cheered at that and one voice began to laugh weakly and hysterically.

Don Alejandro called for silence. The laughing voice didn't stop entirely, but everyone ignored it. Father Benitez began to announce the time of the funeral, but he was interrupted by a shout that called for the hanging of the murderer. Then someone else called for him to be given a medal. The clamor began to rise again. Felipe couldn't understand the words, but it was clear that at least one huge quarrel was starting. Maybe several.

Mendoza fired his pistol in the air and told everyone to shut up. The silence was as unhappy and disagreeable as the yelling had been. Mendoza panted as he looked over the crowd. "Vincente Ramone will be taken to the jail at the Santa Barbara presidio, where he will be held for transport to Monterrey to stand trial. The murder of a government official is treason." He took a deep breath. "Some of you will be asked for official… testimony." He sagged slightly. "But for now, there is nothing to get excited about. The murderer is in jail. There is nothing to be done. You might as well all go home…."

Don Alejandro and the twins, of course, waited until town was quiet to head home themselves. While they waited, they had tea with Sir Edmond in the tavern. The candles in the chandelier had burned out, but the lamp made a pool of light at their table in the corner.

"Was it him?" Diego asked quietly. "Are you positive?"

"It was…recognizable. It's been dry lately…."

"So, it's finished then," Sir Edmond said. "A crime like this is very upsetting – cold-blooded murder," he made a face. "The fact that he _fooled_ everyone, that we were all taken in, that leaves a bad taste in the mouth, doesn't it?"

"I'll wonder about everything for a while," Don Alejandro confessed. "I never doubted that it _was_ Ramone. Anyone could see he was acting strangely, but…. It was Zorro that saved us, apparently." He sighed. "Not that our problems are over. We have no colonial authority at all now."

Diego was leaning back in his chair, watching out the window. The plaza had cleared out, though. It didn't appear that a mob had stayed to either hang the false alcalde or give him an award.

"Diego," Don Alejandro said suddenly, "If you don't feel up to attending the funeral tomorrow…."

Diego glanced at Gilberto. "No," he said. "I'll go."

Don Alejandro stood up. "Well then. We best get some sleep before tomorrow."

~TBC

Well, there it is. You were wondering how far I would go….

It never made any sense to me that Vincente would do such a shoddy job of getting rid of the original. Also, it had been a while since evil had shocked the twins. Their reaction to this was too good to pass up.


	25. July 10, 1815

**Don Alejandro **

The funeral was a strange experience. It started on time. It was perfectly performed. It was even better attended than Carlos' had been. But –

There was no grief, not even a little sadness or regret. And, yes, that was expected, surely. Luis Ramone had been feared and resented. Even Mendoza, upon whom Ramone had so greatly relied, had not loved him.

But there was not a trace of satisfaction or even relief in the undercurrent of the mass. The entire pueblo seemed struck numb with horror and astonishment. Those who had met the imposter in his guise as the alcalde kept shaking their heads. He was such a charming man, such a reasonable man. To find out he was a fraud and a brutal murderer – he had invited them to dinner! He had made up poems! He had danced with several of the young women and all of the dignified wives!

Edmond had been right: being fooled like this was very hard to accept.

Even Alejandro's own household was touched by the horror of the awful affair. Felipe – practical, temperate, adaptable Felipe – had not eaten breakfast. His hands were still and silent. He would not meet anyone's eyes.

Gilberto was doing no better. He also hadn't touched his breakfast and he looked like he hadn't slept besides. Diego, at least, could be compelled to eat because of his health, but the small breakfast he had taken had not improved his color.

_Merde_. Both of the boys looked like hell this morning.

And there, at the front of the church, the cause of all this: the tightly shut coffin of the man who had oppressed this pueblo for more than three years. Even in death he was poisonous.

It had been an ignominious death. The search party had found him tied and lowered halfway down a ravine to a precarious perch on a narrow ledge of rocks. He had not managed to free himself –

Alejandro stared resolutely at the ring on his finger, trying to use the glint of it to banish the memory. He had seen death. He had seen in war. Surely, this wasn't really any worse…?

Surely, if any man had deserved to die horribly, it was Luis Ramone. His crimes were so many Alejandro wasn't sure he could even list them all. His petty thefts and embezzlements were endless.

His neglect of duty was also many and varied: the mess he had made of the aqueduct, the forced labor, the bandits in the north valley he had systematically failed to arrest, the fact that he had outright refused to arrest Bishop for shooting Victoria – and all the _false_ arrests, the harassment, the endless threats….

The way he had treated any peasant who committed _any_ crime, no matter how minor. And, _oh_, how much he had enjoyed administering some of those punishments!

He had shot his own Zorro imposter. An accident? Maybe. Unforgivably rashness at least, if not outright murder.

Diego believed he had poisoned the bank clerk. A premeditated murder, but one they could not prove.

Alejandro clinched his jaw and kept his eyes down, unwilling to look at that narrow, painted box. Had Ramone paid for his crimes on that ledge? Was he paying for them now?

Diego, rising from the kneeling pad, swayed and gripped the back of the pew in front of him. Alejandro forced himself to keep his own hands still. Diego preferred to pretend that there was nothing wrong.

Ramone had jailed Diego twice. Diego had kept his pride. His courage had never failed. As frail and vulnerable as Diego was, he had never given Ramone an inch. Never. Alejandro felt himself warm with a little triumph. Ramone was dead, and still, _still_, Diego was here, beside him, his dignity and courage still intact.

The requiem mass ended at last. Alejandro wanted to go home and fall into bed, but it might be imprudent to leave the village just now. Everyone seemed subdued, but that could very quickly change. A lot of people had hated Ramone, and just as many had been living in fear for a long time. There was no alcalde now, no authority.

"'Berto, why don't you take your brother and Felipe home," he said when they were outside. "You can send Tomas back with the gig for me later."

Gilberto glanced at Diego, who said, "I'd prefer to stay, Father. I have to set a story about all this tomorrow."

The newspaper. Of course. But it gave Diego something worthwhile to do, and Alejandro couldn't get in the way of that, not when Diego had so little else to give him purpose. "All right then."

In the tavern he installed them at a corner table. Sir Edmond appeared at once, a pitcher in one hand and as many glasses as he had fingers in the other. It was a trick Victoria must have taught him. As he poured the wine he and Felipe exchanged small smiles. Then he squeezed Gilberto on the shoulder. Something seemed to pass through all of them and Alejandro felt – inexplicably – left out.

The feeling passed in a moment, and there was no reason for it anyway. Alejandro knew everything they knew, after all. And in any case there wasn't time to sit around and indulge in thoughtful silence. Across the main room Sebastian and that brat Emilio were standing nose to nose and scowling at one another. Alejandro waved and apology at Edmond and hurried over to diffuse the quarrel.

The next two hours were spent being reasonable – and wouldn't his own father have laughed at that? Everyone else restless and wanting to do _something_, and Alejandro advising prudence and taking the long view. The problem was there were just so many people in town and they weren't _doing_ anything. They had nothing to do but talk, and all the talk was about how they had been badly treated by the government in the past or uneasy speculation about the future. Their anger at the alcalde wasn't kept in place by fear any longer, and yet there was no target to vent it upon.

And then, about noon, Mendoza appeared and took him and the Father Benitez aside. He was clearly miserable and uncertain as he stared at the space in the floor between their feet.

"Oh, heavens, what can it be now?" Alejandro asked.

It came out more of a growl then he intended, but Mendoza was used to being yelled at. He made an unhappy face and said, "We finished searching the personal belongings of the imposter. He had some papers that did not belong to him…."

"We knew he was a thief," Alejandro said a bit impatiently.

"Some of the papers belonged to that territorial commissioner. You know. The one who was murdered up north. I think he might have killed him. Vincente Ramone."

Alejandro let out his breath in a hiss and the priest crossed himself.

"He would have been in about the same place at the time, and - "

Alejandro waved him to quiet. "Yes, Mendoza. You are very likely right. Who else knows about this."

"No-one, I think. I have no one else to tell."

Of course he didn't. Damn. "You must write a letter detailing your suspicion and send it with the prisoner north. And speaking of that, you must dispatch him as soon as possible. Today, if you can manage it. At least, that is my advice."

Mendoza nodded firmly. "First thing tomorrow morning, he goes to Santa Barbara. The evidence I will send separately to the capital." He took a deep breath, glancing around almost nervously. "There are things that have to be talked about, you know? I think people should be told about this latest bit, but not today."

Father Benitez frowned. "You don't think we will get any trouble from the capital, do you, Sergeant?"

"We caught the criminal very quickly." He winced. "With Zorro's help, but still. I don't think they will blame us. But I don't know when they will _help_ us, either…."

Alejandro nodded. "You need to announce a town meeting for Wednesday. It's market day anyway, so many people will be in town. And they'll have two whole days to calm down."

"Ah. Calming down would be very good," Mendoza agreed. "Also, it might be a good idea to reinstate the curfew, at least for today and tomorrow. A big tragedy like this, especially when you can't do anything, people get a little crazy…."

A little crazy. Yes, they certainly did. Twice today Alejandro had seen hard words nearly come to blows. "Have someone put up some notices then. Make it look official. Remind them we have a garrison, and the colonial authorities are still in charge." He tried to ignore the fact that it was _Mendoza_ who was in charge. Who knew how long it would take for the capital to send someone? Still. Mendoza was asking for advice. That was something.

Not long after the announcement town began to empty out There wasn't much work to do at this point in the summer, but there was some, and knowing that they would have to drop everything and come back in two days to hash things out again took some of their urgency away.

When he went looking for the boys, Victoria informed him that Diego had gone to the newspaper office to get some work done and Gilberto had gone down to look at the new house. Briefly, he considered sending Felipe to fetch him, but it was a short walk, and perhaps he should have a word with Gilberto alone.

He found him sitting on an unfinished adobe wall. Alejandro considered for a moment, and then sat down beside him. "Settling down in town, finally?" Gilberto asked.

"It is." Alejandro paused. "You know, I just realized…Diego can be allowed off the hacienda without and escort now." He took off his hat and ran a cooling hand through his hair. "It's been months….This last trip to Santa Barbara I almost turned back twice, afraid that Ramone would find a way to get at your brother while I was gone. Find some pretext to arrest him and then…."

Gilberto sighed. Very slowly he said, "I have to admire his forbearance - Diego, I mean. He hated Ramone. He had every reason to. And still, he kept his head. He didn't make any mistakes."

That was true. While Alejandro was still thinking about it, Gilberto said, "Father, can I ask you…."

Alejandro cleared his throat and ignored the tiny spark worry brought on by Gilberto's strange moodiness. "You may ask me anything," he whispered.

"It is impossibly naive of me. Foolish. But, honestly, Father, I have never seen anything as evil as this. I never _imagined_ anything as evil as this. And I had thought, until yesterday…that I was not a particularly good person. And then…."

"Evil." Dear heaven. Gilberto was expecting him to be _wise_ now. "I think it is important to remember that no one is perfect. For all of us the difference is degree, not kind."

"He murdered his brother."

"He did." Alejandro said cautiously. "Great evil can be done in a moment of anger."

"Anger? There wasn't any anger, Father. He traveled a thousand miles, lured his brother out into the wilderness, tied him to a tree or something, and then came back here and read his brother's papers and planned a party while … while his brother died slowly."

Lowered him onto some rocks halfway down a ravine, actually, but the implication was the same. And Gilberto was right: it was nauseating.

Gilberto was still talking. "He sat there. He ate. He slept. He grilled Mendoza about the local landowners. And all the while….And I just cannot understand it, Papa. I would give anything…."

_Diego. Of course. Diego._ Alejandro closed his eyes.

"It is not that I _want_ to understand it, but I can't forget it…." Gilberto whispered. "What does it mean for the world, that something so terrible can…_be_?"

Terrible. "I never avenged your Uncle Alfonzo." He had not meant to say that – he tried not to think it. Every day, he tried not to think it – but the words came out anyway. "The cowardly traitor who killed him…got away. Thirty years, and I still….No. I can't understand it either. How can a creature like Vincente Ramone exist in this world?"

Gilberto nodded, his shoulders sagging.

Alejandro found he wasn't finished. "I would give anything to spare you…well. Sooner or later, Diego…." But there were things that could not be said, even today when they sat alone in the quiet, empty, half-finished house. He could not put words to Diego's decline. "I am as afraid for you as I am for him."

"He has it all organized," Gilberto swallowed. It sounded painful. "He expects me to look after you and Felipe. I won't…I can't…I will not fail him, Father. Diego needs to know that I will do what he can't, and so…I will."

Alejandro closed his eyes. _Ah, Diego. Of course. Of course you would find a way to take care of your brother. _

Gilberto continued quietly, "It is so unfair, that Ramone throws away what anyone ought to treasure, but…Everything is unfair, isn't it? I used to be afraid…that it was a punishment. Diego's illness, I mean. Because I was never good or pure or…." He shuddered. "That winter when he was so sick, I kept thinking that he was being taken away from me, and that if I had _deserved_ him…. It was foolish. Obviously, I know that, papa. But… It was a terrible time and I wasn't thinking clearly. Diego was so sick and we were so far from home….What could something that terrible be justice _for_? How bad could I be?"

"'_Berto_," Alejandro protested, but he wasn't surprised, not really. He knew his son.

"But no. It wasn't a punishment. Justice doesn't come that way. The only justice in the world is the justice we do."

"Yes," Alejandro said. "In this world it is up to us. The responsibility is rather…frightening."

And then Gilberto turned to him and smiled. "You have always managed it," he said.

Alejandro thought of Cordova, unpunished and free, and shook his head. "It's worth _trying_. But in this world justice is beyond us, I think." He took a deep breath and roused himself. "And this conversation is bordering on heresy. Don't repeat it."

Gilberto grinned. "Never, Papa."

"Things have about settled down in town. There isn't anything more we can do here today. Let's collect Diego and Felipe and go home."

Gilberto hesitated. "Papa…."

"Hmmm?"

"Ah…no, never mind. You're right. We should be going home."

~_The End_

It might be a few weeks before I start on the next section – the long 8 months when there is no alcalde.


End file.
